


Detours and Fairy Tales

by felinefemme



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-07 05:44:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 38,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5445392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felinefemme/pseuds/felinefemme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The other jobs Molly Hooper had before becoming a pathologist - and having a crush on Sherlock Holmes each time without them recognizing the other in each one. Fluff, maybe some angst, and the joys of finding The One True Job before finding The One.</p>
<p>Beta'd by MissMollyBloom, but all mistakes are mine, and <a href="http://smg.photobucket.com/user/amalia_kensington/media/bigbang/SBB-RACHEL.jpg.html">artwork</a> by Amalia Kensington.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Amalia Kensington (amaliak01)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amaliak01/gifts), [MissMollyBloom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMollyBloom/gifts).



Many people go through life without knowing where it will lead. That’s normal. You could be doing something ordinary, like your doing your laundry, or writing an email, and yet have a nagging feeling, like you’re missing something, or you’re not where you’re supposed to be. So you change direction, look for something new, try anything that will make that nagging feeling go away. All the while, you never know where you are headed, or who you are destined to meet. But once you know what you were meant to do in life, once you meet that certain someone, you’ll find that everything just… fits. Well, mostly everything…

***

1985: Dishwasher

As a child, Molly loved how water would turn soap into bubbles. She thought it was magical the way that combining two similar things would make a third so different. She could spend hours at the sink, building white, fluffy mountains in the suds. It was no wonder, then that Molly Hooper’s first job was washing dishes. At first, it wasn’t a job, it was simply one of her chores, but when her parents saw how efficient and thorough their little six-year-old was, they decided to bring her on part-time into the family business of cleaning houses.

Molly was quite proud of herself, being the only six-year-old she knew of with a job. Her older brother Brian had his own job, walking the dogs in the neighborhood and doing quite well, too, for a ten-year-old. Their grandmother watched their younger sister Anna, since she was only two. Her dad liked to tease the two homebodies before they left, “Anna, listen to your Nana, and Nan, be nice to Ann.” For him, the joke never got old, although it wasn’t long before Anna would roll her eyes along with her grandmother, precocious girl that she was.

When they went to the houses, the routine was the same: her parents checked in with the homeowners (or guardian, or some kind of house-greeter, there were so many different sorts), and the homeowners left. Once they were gone, Molly would come in, carrying her step-stool and bucket bearing her apron and new scrubbers. While it was a given that there would be dishwashing soap, for some reason, it was a 50-50 whether they would have dish scrubbers. When she asked her mum why some didn’t have dish scrubbers, Molly was answered, “Who knows, love. Perhaps they forget because we’re there to clean up.”

Being, as she was, a six-year-old expert on washing detergents, Molly soon formulated preferences. The brand with the yellow lid was too strong. The pink bottle made the bubbles too small. The white bottle with the purple label was just right. Molly could still remember the day when, after house after house of disappointments, she entered a house and was relieved to see that these people had their own scrubbers as well as her favorite brand of dishwashing soap in the kitchen. Her long dark pigtails tied up and out of the way, she hummed to herself as she started stacking up the dishes in order, hearing the mild clatter of her parents cleaning in the background. It wasn’t long before she’s finished washing and then rinsing the last of the dishes. The part of the job that she liked is seeing all the dishes, nice and clean and neatly arranged in the dish rack.

She was almost getting to that point, seeing a job well-done, when she’s on her last and largest dish, an oblong platter with an insane amount of decoration, when she hears, “Avast, mateys! There be an intruder on deck!”

She screams and whips around quickly, the platter falling from her wet hands. “Oh no!” she cries, her focus less on the one who startled her and more on the dish she dropped. She hopped down from the step-stool, then stared at the shattered platter. “No,” she whispered softly, her lower lip already starting to tremble and tears gathering in her eyes.

“I, I’m sorry!” the other voice said, and she looked up. There was a round little boy, about her height, wearing a slightly large pirate’s hat and eye patch, and a dirty striped shirt with torn shorts. “I’ll fix it!”

“How?” she stared at the pirate boy.

He pouted, then stared hard at the pieces on the floor. Then he grinned suddenly. “I know! Wait here!”

He ran off, and she stared at his retreating figure. She thought that everyone from the house left, but apparently, he didn’t. She wondered why his parents would leave him behind, but she didn’t have time to think too long on this question since he came back with a clatter through the kitchen door with a load of things in his arms.

“Here, put these on,” he said, handing over a pair of long plastic gloves. She pulled them on, and so did he, and the extra length trailed past both their fingertips. “This way, we won’t get hurt by the edges.”

“Okay,” she said. “Now what?”

He hunkered down beside the pieces, and so did she. “Now we make sure we’ve got all the pieces. Sometimes, they go hiding.”

So they spent some time making sure they had all the pieces, and, as the pirate boy said, there were a few shards that had skittered to the corners and cupboard doors. Once they had all the pieces assembled like a puzzle, she looked up at him. “How do we stick it together?”

He grinned. “Easy. With these!” He unloaded what looked like a burlap sack, and out fell a ton of sweets and gum. He put the sweets back, then handed her one of the pieces of gum. “We chew this, and it should stick the stuff together. I know, ‘cause I stuck my brother’s book together once,” he stated, popping in a piece of his own and chewing mightily.

She would glare at his rudeness to his older brother, but she’s only relieved that he’s got a solution. Then she frowned as a thought occurred to her. “What about paste?” she asked. They used paste in school for crafts, she remembered.

The pirate boy scowled. “It’s not strong enough. And it’ll come apart when you wash it.”

“How do you know?” she frowned.

“That’s what Mummy did to unstick My – my older brother’s hair,” he stuttered briefly, looking away.

“Oh, okay,” she said. “I think my gum is done. Do I just stick it on?”

The pirate boy shook his head. “Give it here,” he said, holding out his hand.

She frowned again, since he didn’t say please, but handed it over anyways. “Okay.”

He stuck her gum to an inside piece, then fitted it next to two of its neighbors. Then he pulled out his own piece and did the same to more adjoining pieces. “Get some more gum,” he ordered, “this is gonna take a lot.”

So Molly unwrapped more gum, and she and the strange pirate boy chewed away. It looked a bit like art she’d done in school, what with the colorful gum in between the colorful platter pieces. And, bit by bit, she and the pirate boy chewed away and put the platter together.

She was leaning over the half-finished platter when she realized something. “I think I’m stuck,” she said, and the ends of her long pigtails looked to be rooted to her side of the platter.

“What do you – oh, no,” he grumbled. “Why do you have such long hair?”

“I’m a girl, dummy,” she retorted.

“I’m not a dummy,” he shot back, “I’m smarter than my teachers!”

She stared at him, since it clearly was impossible for that to be true, and for the second time that afternoon, her lips trembled. “But I’m _stuck_ ,” she repeated, slowly trying to pull her hair off the platter, and finding that some hair pulled out from her head instead of off the platter. _“I’m stuck,”_ she declared, letting go of her pigtails and feeling the pain of the torn hair follicles get the best of her. Hot, fat tears rolled down her face, and she sat down full on the floor, rather than crouch over the gummed pieces. The gummed pieces slid over with her.

“No, don’t cry, don’t cry,” the pirate boy jumped around, as if that would help him think better. “Here,” he dug into his pocket, “have a kiss.” And he gave her a large wooden button.

“That’s not a kiss,” she sniffled.

“’Course it is,” he frowned, “it’s a kiss kids give each other. Not a Mummy or Daddy kiss.” And he put it in her apron pocket.

But that only reminded her of her parents. “I want my Mummy and Daddy!” Molly tried to wipe at her eyes, but that made her let go of her hair, which got dragged down again and made her hair hurt. “Daddy!”

“No!” he panicked, waved his hands frantically, as if that would magically make her stop crying. “DON’T CRY!”

That did it. Her crying, which was mostly just a slight hiccupping kind of sob, now turned up to a full-sized wail. A wail which brought in her father, who was closest, his booted feet sounding like a herd of cattle through the house.

“What’s going on here?” her father shouted, then stared as he took in the strangely-dressed boy flapping his hands at his little girl, who appeared to have her lovely long pigtails attached to a mad-looking plate. 

The pirate boy stopped his hand waving, looked at the older man in fear, and ran off. When her father reached her, the kitchen door slammed behind the boy, but nobody was paying him any attention. “Hey,” her dad said, now feeling more than a bit awkward, “it’s okay.” He hugged her, but she continued to sob.

Her father then sighed. “Sweetheart, we’re gonna have to cut you off of that plate,” he said, not sure how he was going to explain this to the homeowners. He was fairly sure, however, that they’d have to pay for this, and that this was probably the last time they’d be cleaning this particular house.

Her head jerked up, yanking the now-stretched pieces with her hair. “Ow, no!” she said, shocked. She was proud of how long her hair was compared to her classmates, and it would be like losing to certain snobby girls if it was shorter.

“What’s going on?” her mother said, then swiftly swooped in next to her daughter. “Oh, Molly, darling!” She patted her daughter’s shoulder gingerly, not wanting to startle her and cause her to move and pull any more hair.

“Daddy said he’d have to cu-cut my hair,” Molly hiccupped.

“He’s right, sweetie,” her mother said, replacing her brother in the hug department, but her expression telling her husband to get the scissors quickly. As he complied, she stroked her daughter’s back. “I’m so sorry, I know how you loved your long hair,” she said in a soothing tone, “but it’s all right. Hair will grow back. Trust me, it does, and I’ve trimmed my hair many a time.”

Molly looked up at her mother with large eyes, not knowing that her expression was breaking her mother’s heart. “Really?” she asked hopefully.

“Of course, darling,” her mother reassured her, brushing loose strands from her face. “You’ve seen how long my hair is, and goodness knows, if I didn’t have it in a bun at work, it would be caught in all sorts of nastiness.”

Molly pulled her lips inward, thinking. Her mother did have really long hair, and she’s gone more than once to have it trimmed. “Okay.”

“That’s my girl,” her mother pulled her in for another squeeze. “Just think of it as your very first trim, my brave, big girl.”

“Okay,” Molly’s smile wobbled more than a bit, but it was still a smile.

“Now,” her mother said briskly, “keep your eyes open. I want you to see that this is nothing, just a little trim and it won’t hurt any more.”

Molly was about to nod, but she remembered how that hurt, so she just said, “Okay” again, and braced herself, keeping her eyes open as her mother told her to.

Her mother cut as low and as quickly as she could, but she ended up taking two inches off one side and three and a half on the other. Oh dear. Molly’s hair was as straight as her husband’s and son’s, which made her heart clench. “Molly,” she said in a level voice, “I’m going to having to trim off a bit more. Can you handle that?” Of all the ways her daughter had to get her first haircut, this was probably one of the worst.

Molly’s face fell. She would lose more of her hair, and lose to those awful snobby girls! “Yes, Mummy,” she said sadly.

“Good girl,” her mum said, and held the ends together to measure them out, then cut the longer one to match the shorter. It looked all right now, but she knew how her daughter loved her long hair. Her poor girl wasn’t vain about much, but that was one of the only things she was. She hugged her little girl. “There. No more pain, and a lovely new hairstyle to boot. I bet none of the other girls could say they’ve got a new hairstyle halfway through the year, hm?” She hugged her girl again.

“No, Mummy,” Molly said, still sad, but not as much as before, and hugged her mother back. There was no more pain, like Mummy had promised, and her pigtails looked nice and even again. As her mother got up to throw away the hair cuttings, Molly rubbed her thumb against the newly-trimmed ends. _It felt nice,_ she thought, _like a soft brush._ She smiled softly, and her family relaxed.

“Up you get,” her father said, hoisting her to her feet. “Ooh, look at you. You look so much older, like you’re seven now!”

“Do I really?” she smiled hopefully.

She didn’t catch the look her parents exchanged. “Really,” her mother nodded.

Her smile was one of relief, as were her parents’, now that she was all sorted. It was getting the understanding of the homeowners about the badly-repaired platter that would be a sticky point (in more ways than one). Thankfully, when the Hoopers did talk to the homeowners, the plate was found to be a gift from a not-well-liked aunt who had visited the other night, so the damage was negligible. Just to be on the safe side, however, Molly wouldn’t do dishes for these particular homeowners.

***

“Once upon a time,” Sherlock’s deep voice was soft as he leaned over their children’s bed, “there was a young pirate boy, who was wild of imagination, wild at heart, and had wild hair. Fortunately, he had a very wise first mate, Redbeard, to keep him tame and out of trouble.”

Molly, who was on her way to remind the children to brush their teeth, changed her mind. She sat beside her husband, wondering what story he’d be spinning tonight.

He smiled a quick smile at her, then went on. “The pirate boy often got into trouble. Sometimes it was for good reasons, and sometimes, well, not so good.” He raised an eye at Eliza, their older child, who squirmed. Today was a not-so-good-trouble day for her. “One time, the pirate boy was sent to his room for shoving all his dinner vegetables into his older brother’s shoes, and wasn’t allowed to go with his family to the park the next day. Well, once his family was gone, the pirate boy left his room and rejoined his first mate, Redbeard in their pirate ship in the backyard. Unfortunately, his first mate was tired, and the pirate boy got bored. 

“Then he saw someone in his kitchen. Nobody but he and Redbeard were supposed to be home, so he had to find out why Cinderella was in his kitchen!”

“Cinderella? Really?” Eliza’s pale eyes shone.

Bobby, her younger brother, made a face. “Ew,” he grumbled.

“Well, that’s who the pirate boy thought she was. After all, she was the prettiest girl he’d ever seen, with her big brown eyes and beautiful long brown pigtails, and she was washing the dishes with a delightful smile on her face. He thought perhaps she had flown there, since he hadn’t seen her come in,” Sherlock said, sounding perfectly besotted.

“And did she fly in?” Eliza asked.

“That’s what the pirate boy’s parents told him,” her father answered. “The pirate boy decided to gift her with short hair so she would be able to go on adventures with him. After all,” he looked at his wife with a small smirk, “it would be a shame if the Cinderella girl couldn’t join the dashing pirate boy if her long dark hair got caught in something.” Molly wrinkled her nose, but her mouth twitched upwards, and he went on. “Unfortunately, that was the only time the girl’s magic would let her fly into the kitchen, so they went on their separate adventures.”

“So is that how you and Mummy first met?” Eliza asked.

Molly’s eyes flew wide. She would’ve thought he’d pick their meeting at Bart’s, but not this. Well, technically, this _was_ their first meeting…

Sherlock nodded. “I was nine,” and he looked at his wife, who blushed, “and she was six, the same age as you, Eliza, and that’s when I first thought, ‘Oh. I really mucked up this fairy tale. We’re supposed to go on adventures together.’ “

Well, this is the first she’s heard of it. “Did you really?” Molly asked.

Sherlock nodded. “But we did go on adventures, didn’t we?” He angled his head to give her a kiss.

She smiled as she tilted her face towards him, “Yes, we did. And we are.”

Bobby tried to cover his eyes and his sister’s, but she batted his hand away and grinned. His parents were so gross. If he were a pirate, he would _not_ want to meet a Cinderella!


	2. Chapter 2

1987: Dogwalker

Even though her family’s never owned a dog, Molly Hooper likes them. She likes how friendly they are, how playful, and yes, how furry they are. You can’t really pet a goldfish’s scales, even gently, and she’s found that out the hard way. Dogs, on the other hand, welcome a good petting. She loves feeling the softness of the puppies and the roughness of the elderly dogs. And her daddy has teased her that she reminds him of a puppy at times, very loyal, eager to please, bounding with love for her family, and a bit clumsy at times. But he ruffled her short hair at that last bit, meaning no harm, and she smiled, not minding most of the comparison.

And after accompanying her brother on more than a few of his walks so she could happily pet said dogs, it’s no wonder that Molly Hooper’s second job was dogwalker. Yes, she was taking over her brother’s business, since he was joining their parents in their house cleaning business. She was eight now, and more than a bit pleased to have inherited it at the same age her brother started it.

And, to her family’s surprise, she had started to look and dress like Brian, too - wearing her brother’s hand-me-down clothes and even adopting a similar hairstyle. For Molly, it wasn’t an issue of fashion or a statement on gender-norms, it was simply a lot easier to play with her boy classmates in shorts than it was in skirts, and there was no chance her short hair would ever be caught in gum again. Despite this, it wasn’t long after the school year started that her parents had had the uncomfortable talk with the headmaster about their daughter’s sexual preferences. That had gotten her father good and mad, sputtering that this was _primary_ school, none of the children should be old enough to be thinking about that sort of thing, and what was wrong with his daughter dressing in trousers and having short hair as long as she got good grades? So Molly, unbeknownst to the rest of the country, had started a minor revolution at her school. Her parents still paid for their children’s uniforms, it just so happened that their elder daughter chose to wear the boy’s uniform for most of her primary school years.

And at home, she would wear her brother’s castoffs, which meant a lot of t-shirts, overalls and jeans. It was a bit of relief to her parents, being as they had one less child to shop for, but the fact that their eldest daughter insisted on having a simple blunt haircut similar to her brother’s at that age made them wonder a bit about an early rebellion. Her behavior and grades, however, were the same, so they decided she was simply expressing herself as a middle child.

At eight years old, Molly was taller and a bit thicker than she was at six, and with her hairstyle and clothes, along with the fact that boys and girls sound relatively the same at that age, the clients accept Brian Hooper’s shy younger “brother” with no questions. They even thought that her name was “Ollie” because she mumbled it every time. She didn’t correct them, already knowing that they’d act differently like her classmates do once they find out she’s really a girl. She asked enough questions for them to accept her as Brian’s replacement, although some of the information was the same as the ones she’d gotten from her brother earlier just so she could put her mind at ease. Still, it was nice to be taken seriously, even at this age.

Once she’s on her own with the dogs, however, she smiled openly, and talked clearly. She likes animals, even though her own family’s never had anything bigger than a fish. And she likes the feeling of responsibility, she likes the dogs, she likes playing with the dogs, and she likes getting paid for playing with the dogs. As to having to clean up after them, well, that’s what makes it a job. Still, it was fun being with the dogs who accepted her just as she was, they didn’t care if she were a boy or a girl, she was their friend and play pal. More than once, she thought of how nice it would be if everyone could be like a dog: happy with the simple things, able to express their feelings openly, and not mind a bit of rough housing.

She walks five dogs in the morning before school, and six of those after school, four of them being the same as the morning ones. Oddly enough, she likes the bigger dogs more than the smaller dogs, even though they have a tendency to pull her along rather than her leading them. She prefers to think of them as dog-sized dogs, although her younger sister Anna likes the teeny, tiny ones. Because she’s not as tall as her brother (probably never will be, but she has hope), she only walks up to three dogs at a time, and that would be the smaller ones. The dog-sized dogs she walks one by one, because after making the mistake of walking them two at a time like Brian did, they dragged her on to the road and nearly got them all killed chasing a squirrel. While she understood the why, she didn’t appreciate almost becoming road pancake for their sport.

Molly even likes it when it gets cold, because both she and the dogs get antsy cooped up inside too long. She likes it even more when Brian rejoins her for winter holidays. They both get bundled up and they both grumble about it, but she lets him have the dog-sized dogs so they can properly have a good run, and she looks after the smaller ones, making sure they don’t freeze in the snow. They talk about the dogs, and what new things she’s noticed, and he tells her to read up on dog care to be a better walker. She bristles at the implication that she’s not doing a good job, but then remembers Brian reading dog books as well as his regular text books, and goes to the library.

When winter holidays are over, Brian goes back to helping their parents and she’s on her own. The dog books help, and she learns to really watch the different dogs, how they behave with each other, how they behave around other humans other than herself, and how to better tailor her play and walks for each of them. Since she has a mix of big and small dogs, it was hard to change the pace for some than others, but she found that her brother’s advice of tying the smaller ones to a tree or pole to work off the bigger dogs’ need for more exercise really does help.

She’s had this job for a year when she first sees a boy about her age playing with Redbeard in the front yard. She smiled, happy to see there was someone younger to play with such an energetic dog. But he didn’t seem all that careful, either, which is probably why she’s being paid to walk the dog, rather than him doing it for free. “Hullo,” she said, taking the leash off the coat rack, “I’m here to walk your dog.”

The boy is chubby, with light brown curly hair and pale eyes that narrow when they see her. “It’s not time yet,” he said, and looked just as suspiciously at the three dogs she’s got now.

No, she’s pretty sure she’s right on time. She looked at her wristwatch, then at the boy. “My watch says it’s 5:05. I’m five minutes late, actually. Blue Peter’s owner got caught up in traffic, but it’s all sorted. Is it okay to get Redbeard now, or do you want to walk with him?”

“Who’s Blue Peter?” he asked.

She smiled. “Blue Peter’s a black Labrador, but he’s so black he’s blue. He’s almost as big as Redbeard.”

“Hmph,” the boy said, “see, boy, you’re a big guy. Yes, you are.”

She looked around, wondering where his parents were. Usually, they’d tell her everything up front and hand her the dog with the leash on already. “Did he eat already?” she asked. “Or should I come back later?”

“Um, I don’t know,” he frowned, “Mum and Dad usually do that, but they didn’t tell me to before they left. I think he ate.”

“Just in case, let’s get some treats,” Molly said. “Do you know where they are?”

“’Course I do,” he bristled, and Redbeard paused in his tail-thumping at the tone. “Come on,” he said.

Molly shrugged, then followed after him, followed by Redbeard. “You be good,” she murmured to the dog.

“I’m always good,” the boy pouted.

“I was talking to Redbeard,” she blinked.

“Oh,” he said, his cheeks turning pink. She thought he looked kind of cute like that, like one of those chubby angel things they put on Valentine cards. But she didn’t say that out loud, since he seemed touchy enough. “Here,” he said, opening a cupboard and revealing a large bag of crunchy kibbles, as well as smaller tins of soft dog food. Then he opened a drawer and pulled out a plastic baggie, then filled the baggie with kibbles. “Is that enough?” he asked, holding it out.

Molly nodded. “Sure,” she said. Redbeard nudged her leg, and she grinned. “All right, one for the road,” she said, and scooped a few out and let the red dog eat from her hand. “Good boy,” she said, patting his head, then fastening the leash to the dog’s collar. “Thanks,” she said to the boy, “I can take him from here.”

“Oh, I,” he stammered, then looked at the dog. “Can I go with you?”

She blinked again, but nodded. “Sure,” she said. After all, Redbeard was his dog, not hers. “Come on.” He started to follow her out the door, but she stopped abruptly. “Aren’t you going to be cold without a coat?” she asked.

“What? Oh,” he said, and blushed again, grabbing his winter coat hastily from the rack. “Okay,” he said.

“Okay,” she echoed, and they went out.

It was a chilly day, so she was glad she reminded the strange boy to get his coat. “By the way, what’s your name? I can’t be calling you ‘you’ all the time,” she said as they turned the corner, Redbeard happily leading the way on his routine walk.

“W-Billy,” the boy stammered. “What’s yours?”

Billy. It seemed to fit him. “’mMolly,” she mumbled back, so that the words slurred into each other. “Nice to meet you.” She stuck out her free hand, and, after a brief hesitation, he shook it.

“Where do you usually take Redbeard, Ollie?”

“Just around the block, and up the hill, if he’s extra energetic,” she answered. It’s the first time someone her age is calling her Ollie, and it’s a bit odd, but a bit nice.

And soon, they’re talking about Redbeard, and dogs in general, and soon, even themselves. For some reason, in spite of his touchiness, Molly feels like they could be friends. Well, except for one teeny tiny detail…

“Are all boys at your school as nice as you are?” he asked as they went down the hill and back to his house.

Yeah. He still thought she was a boy, and for some reason, she didn’t want to disappoint him. She shrugged. “Some. Not all. What about your school?”

He pouted. “Nobody’s nice at my school. They’re all dumb.”

“Billy! That’s not a nice thing to say!” she scolded him.

“But they’re not nice. Why should I be nice about them?” he asked, and it sounded like he’s said that a lot, for some reason, the scowl returning to his face.

“That’s too bad,” she said, “so you don’t have anyone to play with?”

His scowl deepened. “Playing is for babies.”

“No, it isn’t,” she retorted, “I’m nine years old, and I still like to play.”

“You’re _nine?_ ” he stared at her. “You’re two years younger than me! Why are you as tall as I am?”

“Girls are taller than boys in primary school,” she said without thinking, and then her eyes widened. She did _not_ mean to say that! Why wasn’t she careful?

His chin jerked up so fast, she thought he’d hurt himself. “You’re a _girl?_ ” his voice went up into almost a squeak, his expression a mixture of disbelief and betrayal.

Her eyes skittered about nervously, but apparently, they were the only ones crazy enough to be out on a chilly afternoon. “Yeah,” she said miserably. “Are you gonna tell on me?”

He stared hard. “How is Ollie a _girl’s_ name?”

She sighed, and it almost seemed like Redbeard sighed with her. “It’s _M_ olly,” she emphasized the “m” sound at the start of her name. “People tend to trust boys with dogs, it seems.”

Billy huffed. “Are you scared they’re not gonna trust you if you’re a girl?” he asked bluntly.

She sucked in her lips, looking at his dog rather than him. “Would _you_ trust me with Redbeard if you knew I was a girl?” she asked in a small voice.

“I,” he said, then stopped, looking lost, confused, and more than a little frustrated. Then he took a deep breath. “You’re good with Redbeard, and you’re good with other people’s dogs, too, or you wouldn’t have this job for this long. And while I’m predisposed to distrust adults in intelligence, much less children my age or younger, and most especially females, who seem to deliberately lower their IQ for social acceptance, you have managed to outsmart most of the neighborhood and make a profit as well! And you’re a _girl!_ ” His pride kept him from whining about the fact that he didn’t realize she was a girl straight off, but now that all the pieces had come together, yes, her facial structure, her tone almost matching his mother’s when correcting his speech, and her being, well, _nice_ should have told him “Ollie” wasn’t an ordinary boy. Then again, it was probably because he was hoping the other was extraordinary like he was. “It’s not fair,” he muttered at the end.

Molly’s not sure whether to be insulted or complimented. Sure, he’s used big words in their previous conversations, but she could follow for the most part, since it covered things she’d read about or talked about with Brian. But this, this confused her. “What, exactly, seems unfair to you?”

He turned his blazing eyes on her, and for the first time, she wondered at the vehemence of that look in someone who wasn’t an adult. “The unspoken social construct that seems to require you to disguise yourself as a boy, when, in fact, you are a very capable girl whose satisfaction and aplomb at her job I was just envying!”

Okay. “Thank you,” she said, unscrambling the compliment out of all that. “Does that mean you’re not gonna tell on me?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. “My older brother would say that the truth will find you out, and you shouldn’t count on society to relax its hold on you simply because of your age. Mummy would say that it would be best if I learned some manners and kept your secret.”

“And what about your dad?” she wondered aloud.

His eyes flickered to the red dog, who looked noticeably more tired now that the initial excitement of his master joining them wore off. “He would say I’d know what to do, and that he’d be proud of me,” he said, bending down to hug his best friend. He told Ol – no, _Molly,_ that he didn’t have friends, but that was a lie. Redbeard was his best friend, and even though he’d known he was an old dog when they got him, it didn’t stop the big red dog’s enthusiasm in joining his master in all sorts of piratey play.

And now, he would have to choose between telling the absolute truth, when he usually never thought twice about revealing, or protecting his best friend’s friend, who had lied by omission. And considering he only had one friend, having a friend of a friend in a precarious position put him in something of an uncomfortable place himself, since he had no previous knowledge or experience in how to deal with this type of situation.

Billy looked up at her. “I won’t tell,” he said finally, but added, as her shoulders relaxed, “but you will have to, sooner or later. The fact that your older brother’s clothes and your hairstyle are an acceptable disguise won’t last forever, and when neighboring primary students go to the same secondary school, the charade will be harder to hide.” He closed his eyes. “Who knows, perhaps you will find another, more socially acceptable job by then.” Then he opened them, and said, “I wish you wouldn’t. You’re less boring like this.”

She’d been smiling for most of his speech, but at that last bit, she gaped. “I won’t do anything just because it’s ‘less boring’,” she mimicked him, “and certainly not for you!”

“Why not?” he pouted.

She rolled her eyes. “Are you really eleven? Because you act like you’re five,” she noted.

“I do not!” his pout deepened. “And I’ll be twelve soon!”

“My sister is five, and you’re acting exactly like her,” she said, and now he’s just scowling. She giggled. “ _Exactly_ like her,” she repeated.

“I take back all the nice things I said,” Billy stood up to cross his arms.

Molly giggled again, letting the silly boy and the big red dog lead her back to their home. She’s still got time to enjoy this job, but she knows it’s not forever. Even Brian let it go, and he was the one who got her liking dogs in the first place. But she’s glad that she’s met Billy, and that in spite of him acting like a bossy public school boy, he’s a decent sort at heart.

When they reach his house, she asks, “Billy?”

“Yes?”

“Would you mind coming with me the next time I walk Redbeard?”

“But you’re,” he started, then stopped. “Okay.”

“I’ll even let you hold Redbeard’s leash.”

He frowned. “That makes no sense,” he said, “why should I do something you’re getting paid to? Will I get paid instead?”

She shrugged. “If you want. I just thought you might like taking Redbeard out now that you know how to do it.” He wrinkled his nose, and she giggled.

“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow. Maybe.” And she left, before her cheeks started turning red and giving her away. Even though he acted like a brat at times, he was really, really nice, and really smart, and she couldn’t help liking that.

It took her a week, but she eventually told all her clients that she was really a girl. Some, to her surprise, knew that already, but thought she was just being a tomboy, and others were actually surprised at her confession. The latter took a little time, but only one of them dropped her services. The rest continued to pay her for walking their dogs, and for that, she was relieved. She still continued to wear her brother’s hand-me-downs because it was more comfortable and practical for her work and play, however. Some of her clients, however, seemed to do a double-take when she continued to show up in t-shirts and jeans.

“I can’t believe they honestly thought I’d start wearing a skirt now that they know I’m a girl,” Molly rolled her eyes when she told Billy a few weeks after her initial ‘confession’. “I mean, I’m glad they’re still paying me and all, but why would they think I’d start to wear something silly when they know I’m walking their dog? Skirts and dogwalking do not go together.”

“Societal expectations,” the curly-haired boy shrugged, his light tone at odds with the serious look he’s giving his dog. “Just like people expect all police officers to wear uniforms, when those who are higher in rank actually wear business suits.”

“I suppose,” Molly said, then looked at the boy and saw where his gaze went. “What’s wrong?”

“What?” he said, startled from looking at his dog, then blushed. “Nothing’s wrong,” he added quickly.

The short-haired girl was almost distracted by the blush, but his face was still too serious, well, more serious than it usually was, and sad. And she found that she didn’t like him sad. “Billy,” she repeated her question, “what’s wrong?”

He exhaled, a conscious effort to calm himself. It didn’t really work. “Redbeard’s really old and he’s getting sick,” he said, “and they’re going to take him to the veterinarian tonight. I don’t think it will be a good prognosis.”

“Oh,” Molly said. She’d noticed Redbeard was getting more tired, but she hadn’t thought, no, didn’t want to think the old dog was getting anything except old. She didn’t know what else to say, but it was obvious that Billy was taking it hard.

Neither she nor the boy said anything for a while after that, and as they didn’t go up the hill this time, they made it back to his home sooner. “I,” Molly said, then started again. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Molly didn’t see him or Redbeard the next day, instead, she saw his parents. “He can’t,” his mother said, then stopped. “I’m sorry, but we won’t need your services any longer.”

“Oh,” Molly breathed, unaware she’d said anything until it slipped past her lips. And then she couldn’t say anything else, because tears were choking her eyes and her throat, and she ran off. She asked her mother to call Little Pumpkin’s owner that she needed an extra half hour, and ran upstairs to her room to cry. Yes, she’d known it was a possibility, but she thought, she’d _hoped_ , that Redbeard would be okay. And apparently he wasn’t. And she knew if it was breaking her heart, Billy would be shattered. But, true to her work ethic, she washed her face, passed her mum’s inspection, and walked the rest of the dogs, all of whom felt especially protective of her that day. She understood that they understood, and so she told her family what happened to Redbeard.

Her parents hugged her, and her brother bit his lower lip, while Anna ran to her and cried. “Are you going to continue your job?” her mum asked.

She nodded. “Yeah. But I think this will be my last year.”

“I’m not going to take your job,” Anna sniffled, “it’s too sad.”

Molly was going to tell her that it was just Redbeard who passed, but then she remembered that yes, dogs grow old faster than people, and who knew who would die on Anna’s shift, should she take it on? And Anna was much more sensitive than either Brian or Molly. “It can be,” she agreed, “but the dogs are friendly. And they make more sense than people sometimes. And I’m going to miss them.”

“You’re not quitting yet,” Brian argued, “why are you crying now?”

“Shut up,” Molly said, when she realized that, yes, she was crying again, and then her mother hugged her and offered her a tissue. “’Cause it’s sad,” she finally answered her brother.

“Then don’t take a job where animals die,” he said, and her parents nodded. Anna was still wiping her own nose, and that’s when Molly figured out her next plan of action.

The next day, she knocked at Billy’s door, to his parents’ surprise, and asked to see him. His father said, “He’s out in the backyard, but he won’t talk to anybody.” He sounded sad, which meant he didn’t talk to his parents, either.

“Can I talk to him?” she asked. They looked surprised again, but nodded, and she followed them to the backyard.

He was sitting on the ground, staring at a patch with a wooden cross stuck in it. His tears had dried, but his face was still blotchy and his clothes were a mess. It looked as if he’d been there a while, but she didn’t know how long. She kind of doubted he went to school that day.

She walked over with her arms outstretched, but even though he didn’t seem to be looking at her, he shuffled to the side. Okay, no hugs. She dropped her arms. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I--”

“Stop talking,” he interrupted her.

Rude. But then, he was sad, and probably angry that Redbeard was dead. Well, so was she. And since she couldn’t hug him, or talk to him, even if the latter made her uncomfortable, she didn’t know what to do. So she dropped beside him and stared at the place where Redbeard was and remembered.

After a while of them not saying anything, Billy spoke up again. “You’d better go,” he said.

Her head whipped up. “Why?”

There was a pause. “You have more dogs to walk,” he said.

Oh, yeah. She’d forgotten. “Thank you,” she said.

He frowned. “For what?”

“Reminding me,” she smiled briefly. “See you tomorrow.”

She thanked his parents as she left, but didn’t tell them of Billy’s brief speech, already feeling guilty that she’d practically forgotten that she had other, live, dogs to take care of. 

The next day, she joined Billy on the ground, and this time, didn’t say anything. She relied on him to remind her when to leave, and he did, so she did.

And they did that for the rest of the next two weeks. She noticed that he finally wore different clothes, but said nothing. He was probably going back to school again, but most likely not of his own choice. She also noticed that he was losing some weight, and that saddened her.

On Friday, Billy’s parents told her that they were moving to London. “Oh,” she said, shocked.

“Thank you for being his friend,” his mother bent down and hugged her. After a moment of surprise, Molly hugged her back.

His father smiled a small smile, and Molly realized that’s where Billy got his from, even though his father was much taller and skinnier. “And thank you for being Redbeard’s friend,” he said.

“Of course,” Molly brightened, “he’s a lovely dog.”

His parents sported matching smiles, and stepped back to let her through to the backyard.

She wanted to talk, but there was something about him that made it uncomfortable, so she did what they’d always done, and plopped down beside him, saying nothing. She was going to miss him. She was sad she wouldn’t be seeing him when he stopped being sad, but she supposed that was partly why they were moving to London. She wondered where Billy would go to school, and his older brother, and if they were okay moving. She wondered if they would get another dog, or another pet, or if it would be just too sad to have one again.

She wondered a great many things, so she was startled when Billy spoke up. “It’s time,” he said, as per his usual these past couple of weeks.

Molly dusted herself off, then walked over to him. He stared at her, then frowned. “Goodbye, Billy,” she said. She would shake his hand, but he didn’t seem inclined to that, and a hug even less. Then she gave into impulse and kissed him on the cheek.

“Why did you do that?” he jumped up and put a hand to his face, as if she’d bit him instead.

She jumped back, likewise. “I-I don’t know,” she stammered, startled into the truth. And, suddenly scared and embarrassed, she ran out, not even pausing to say goodbye to his parents. After all, it was more than a little embarrassing to tell them that she’d just kissed their son, and he didn’t even like her!

True to their word, however, the next day, Billy and his family were gone, which surprised her and everyone in the neighborhood. Her other clients couldn’t believe how quickly they’d packed and moved, or that they’d actually gone off to London. There were rumors, of course, but nobody had ever brought up their dog, which made Molly sad again. A month later, a new couple, an elderly one this time, moved in, but they had no pets.

She never told her family that her first kiss was with the odd boy whose dog died, at least, not until years later. But by that time, she’d barely remembered his name, only really remembering the big red dog with the pirate name. After all, Billy was a terribly common, forgettable name, wasn’t it?

***

Eliza and Bobby sniffled as they said a brief piece about each of their pets, then flushed Wynken, Blynken and Nod, the three goldfish they’d won at the fair less than a month ago. “I’m never getting ‘nother pet again,” Bobby declared, flinging himself at his father’s legs once the maritime burial had finished, his eyes and nose running freely. He wasn’t the only one, his sister and mother were hastily wiping their own faces, although Molly’s efforts to pass him a tissue went unheeded as he stained his father’s pajama trouser legs.

The trip to the bedroom was sober, and there were more tissues used and tossed before the children were ready to go to bed. “I can’t go to sleep,” Eliza said, “I’m too sad.”

Her brother nodded forcefully, wiping his nose on his pajama sleeve, much to his mother’s chagrin. But his mother hugged him nonetheless. “Would you like some warm milk?” she offered.

Bobby shook his head hard. “Nuh-uh,” he said, “my throat is chokey.”

“Oh, dear,” Molly said, and turned to her husband, who was similarly hugging their daughter and looking just as helpless. Drat. She sighed. “Would you like some water?” she tried again.

He shook his head again. She sighed again, then leaned her head on his, wishing she could magically take away his sadness and Eliza’s as well. And for the first time in a long time, she remembered her mother telling her that seeing her children sad or in pain would be ten times worse than anything she’d go through on her own, and was saddened to find that her mother was, again, right in this matter.

Sherlock cleared his throat, then said, “If you don’t mind, would it be all right if we stayed with you two until you fall asleep? That’s all.”

Eliza thought about it, then nodded. There was no story that night, just two parents holding their two children until the sniffles quieted down a bit to hard inhales, and from there to an uneasy unconsciousness. Molly waited a couple of minutes before easing herself away from Bobby to get a couple of damp washcloths and wiped their faces, then she and Sherlock tucked in their children.

After she and Sherlock were in their own bed, Molly said quietly, “Thank you.”

He kissed her softly on the cheek. “Thank you. I wish I could’ve thanked you all those years ago,” he said fondly.

She smiled, just as fondly. “It’s all right. Just have to get through this time with Bobby and Eliza, and we’ll call it even.”

He huffed a mock-sigh, but smiled briefly before turning off the light.


	3. Chapter 3

1990: Office Helper

When she was eleven, Molly Hooper wrote about Redbeard’s death for her literature teacher’s assignment. The topic had to be about someone leaving, since one of her classmates, a shy girl named Teresa, was moving in a couple of weeks. So Molly wrote about Billy leaving, and then she wrote about Redbeard, and what the big red dog meant to the both of them. She thought she had finished being sad about his death, but when she was sniffling while writing it, she realized she wasn’t. And then she felt sad for Billy, because he would be missing Redbeard more than she was, and again, she felt bad that she wasn’t able to write to him to see if he was all right. 

Without realizing it, her essay became a cheer-up letter for a boy she would probably never see again, and her teacher, Mr. Kinghorn, told her that. The tall man with a light brown afro, thick glasses and a propensity for reading the best bits of “The Hobbit” to his students on “slow days” was a form favorite, and Molly felt lucky to have him. Then Mr. Kinghorn said, “You seem like a responsible young lady with a level head on her shoulders, and I think you would be a great office helper. It’s a job where you won’t have to deal with pets. You won’t get paid, but it will count as an extracurricular activity.”

She wasn’t the only office helper, for which she was grateful, because an awful lot of teachers seemed to need an awful lot of Xeroxes for their classes. She’d always assumed that the teachers printed them out at home or something, but no. All requests went to the office, and she and four other children started off their day at least half an hour earlier than their classmates, making tons of copies for different classes, then ran like mad before the first bells rang delivering said copies. They were also called on to deliver mail, if needed, and occasionally help the librarian move the VCR machine and telly from the library. Even though it was harder having to get to school earlier (she had to catch public transportation rather than the school bus), she liked the responsibility being one of the younger office helpers. Three of the students, Jeffrey, Gwen, and Carolyn, were Year 9s, which meant they’d have to be replaced next year as they’d be in the midst of GCSEs. Molly and Aaron, Carolyn’s younger brother, were Year 7s, which meant they could stay on for a while.

Jeffrey was a natural-born leader, however, and Molly could see why people picked him for this job. He wasn’t just good at following directions, but asked good questions, and if the others had problems, he broke it down for them easily. And if there were any problems or questions, they went to Jeffrey before going to the secretary. Even Jeffrey’s own stated ambition of being the first black Oxbridge president didn’t get any arguments from the students or staff, although a couple of regular office workers did give the boy a side look, as if not quite believing his ambition.

Molly let her hair grow out to a nose-length bob, the type of unisex haircut popular for children in the ‘70s but was only starting to get popular again for TV boys. She just thought it was cute and went well with her straight hair. And since she was still wearing the boy’s uniform, she figured it didn’t really matter. She envied Gwen’s long blonde hair and long legs, but only vaguely, as she envied the older girl’s ability to navigate being brainy in a still-sexist setting even more. Molly also envied Carolyn’s strength, being the only girl she knew of who played rugby with the boys. Molly might dress like a boy, but Carolyn, for all that she wore skirts and a ponytail, actually played sports with them. Aaron may be Carolyn’s younger brother, but he was the complete opposite, being thin, artistic, and unlikely to play rugby in the near or far future.

And that winter before the break, they were allowed to accompany the Year 11s to a public school just outside of London. While it was an all-boys school, it was a chance for Molly’s “sister school” to experience a day at a place where education was almost priceless. Molly eagerly got her permission form signed by both parents, and her brother Brian teased her, “You’ll be spoiled for normal school now, Molls.”

“Hush,” Anna glared, “if there are any fit lads, let me know!”

Mrs. Hooper had kindly covered her husband’s ears a moment too late, and he groaned. “My babies are growing up!” he wailed theatrically. “Don’t fall for some posh boy we can’t afford, Molly!”

“Oh, God, you’re all so embarrassing!” Molly blushed, and gratefully ran out to the bus stop.

She forgot all about their teasing until the day of, however, when she and the other office helpers joined the lucky Year 11 class. They were all inspected on their uniforms, especially the girls, since previous years had proved that some of the sillier girls had tried to wear their regular clothes under their heavy winter coats. Fortunately, all had passed inspection, even Molly in her boy’s uniform, and they got into the buses quicker than expected.

Once they arrived at the host school, Mrs. Kestrel, the secretary, and the Year 11 teacher, Mr. Robinson, gave them another “rules and regs” talk before they left the bus. They were marched down and introduced to one particular Year 11 class, then Molly’s schoolmates were split into groups, and escorted by different Year 11s from this posh school. Molly was surprised her office group was also separated, but kept her chin up with this group of strangers from both her school and the boy with the ramrod spine from the posh, er, host school.

While she got bored ten minutes into the first class, she could tell those from her school were impressed. _Goody for them,_ she thought sourly, _maybe if I went to Year 7 class, it would be less dull._ But she sorely doubted it at this point, and it was only the start of the day. She had high hopes the next class would be less boring, but it wasn’t, and she really didn’t want to dig deeper into what went on in the government, and the teacher looked just as bored teaching it as the students were listening to him.

She thought that when it was lunch time, she’d be able to see her fellow office helpers, but no such luck. It was a rather larger school than she’d expected, and she knew she went to a rather large secondary school. At least they had pretty good food for cafeteria, for which she was highly grateful. Her parents did have to pay for it, after all, since it was part of the field trip fee. Then a thought occurred to her, one that never occurred to her as a student of her own school.

She thought that, since it was so big, it would be easy to lose her minder. After all, he didn’t seem particularly thrilled to have either her or her Year 11 schoolmates, and she thought that with one less body, it would be okay. She honestly didn’t mean to cause any trouble, in fact, she fully intended to stay out of trouble, as soon as she found where the library was. She figured she couldn’t get bored as soon as she got her hands on a good book, but the trick was to find the library without getting caught by the teachers, or worse, the Year 11s from her school. They’d be sure to tattle, and while normally she wouldn’t blame them, she was positively certain she’d die of boredom rather than obedience.

So she ducked into what was a broom closet as soon as the bell sounded for the next class to start. And found another boy in there already. “Sorry, sorry,” she apologized, then blinked, confused. “Um, do you know how to get out of here? I think I locked us in,” she asked the boy who looked to be about her height and weight, but with shorter, darker hair.

The boy glared at her. “Of course I do. And why are you wearing winter clothes at school?”

Molly sighed. “I’m from a visiting school,” she said, when it looked like he wasn’t about to tattle on her anytime soon. “And I was trying to find the library but got lost.”

The boy frowned. “You’re awfully young to be a Year 11,” he said.

“That’s because I’m a Year 7 and the Year 11 classes are boring,” she rolled her eyes. “And why are you in a broom closet?”

His expression turned surprised, angry and resigned so quickly that she barely parsed it. “Same as you, trying to get to the library,” he answered glibly. “Come on, let’s go.”

She stared at the boy already opening the door, then nodded and followed him out. She felt momentarily guilty at not only ditching the field trip plan, but also finding someone on the inside who’d help her. When she saw the sheer size and grandeur of the library, however, all her supposed guilt disappeared. “Wow,” she breathed.

He grinned, and in that brief moment, she thought it was the loveliest thing. “Come on, this way,” he said, and they veered from the impressive façade to a more prosaic side entrance. He opened the door, and he said in a soft voice, “The librarians usually take an extended smoke break in the parking lot during this time, but occasionally someone will actually try and do their job, so stay quiet and keep an ear out. Non-fiction on the first two floors, fiction on the second two floors, there’s no lift, but the stairs are easy to negotiate. Where do you want to start?”

Molly thought about it. “I’m in the mood for science fiction,” she said.

He narrowed his eyes briefly. “I would have thought mystery,” he said, “come on.” And they went up two floors, and he pointed at the left wall. There was a tiny label on the side of one shelf reading “SCIENCE FICTION”, smaller than the non-fiction classification numbers downstairs, she noted. Still, near-invisible labeling or no, it was nice to see a wall of shelves with said fiction on them.

“Oh, thank God,” she said, looking for the Douglas Adams books. “What about you?” she asked, pulling a chair towards the shelf now that she found them.

He smiled briefly, holding the chair steady while she climbed on the chair to retrieve the books. “Second floor in the chemistry section. I like my science without fiction.”

She nodded. There were times she felt the same, but this wasn’t one of them. She figured she needed a sufficient amount of silliness and flights of fancy to bolster her courage before she was discovered by the authorities to be off on an unapproved detour. She watched him disappear down the stairs, then looked for the most out-of-the-way carrel and holed away with Arthur Dent and his adventures. When she finished with the first two books, she checked her watch and gasped. The rest of the day had practically flown by, and she’d have to find the silly escort and the silly class she’s supposed to be at in less than half an hour. Drat. She put the books away, then pulled out an apple from her coat pocket and munched away. Then she wondered if the other boy had anything to nibble on after all this time, tossed her apple core away, and went to look for him.

Thankfully, the numerical system was the same as her library, and she found the chemistry section after only one wrong turn. Then she looked for the mystery boy. “Hello,” she said when she found him curled up at the end of the shelves. “I’ve got an extra apple, if you want one.”

He grinned and she put it into his hand. “Stealing away from the class tour and eating in the library, what next?” he murmured before chomping into his apple.

“Getting a ride on the _Heart of Gold_ , I suppose,” she shrugged.

He blinked. “Spaceship?” he mumbled around the apple.

She nodded. “Have you never read the ‘Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy’ series?”

He shook his head. “Science, no fiction, remember?” he said.

Molly huffed, then sat down beside him. “Well, it’s amazing for fiction,” she said, “like a funnier ‘Dr. Who’.” She stared when he still had the same uncomprehending look on his face. “How can you be English and not know ‘Dr. Who’?”

He wrinkled his nose. “I know _of_ him, I just don’t watch the show,” the boy shrugged. “Seemed boring.”

“Then what’s so fascinating about this?” she pointed at the open book.

He gave her a wary look. “Why?”

“Why what?”

There was an odd look on his face, one that she tried to identify, but it was gone as soon as she fixed her eyes on him longer than a few seconds. “Why do you want to know?” he said carefully.

And that’s when she finally realized he got bullied, and almost wanted to smack her forehead at how long that took her. She would never be a detective when she grew up, that’s for certain! Pity that even public schools still did that sort of thing, but she had hoped that this seemingly more upper-class place would have upper-class behavior. Silly her. “Because I’m curious and I’m bored,” she said, “and the day is almost over.”

Those seemed to be the magic words, and while he didn’t smile, the bright look on his face made her think oddly of Jeffrey. Oh, it was Jeffrey’s look when he was teaching them something, she found, and the boy flipped through the thick book backwards and forwards, as if he knew it well. _Perhaps he did,_ she thought, _how often has he gone through this particular book? And is it just this book, or are there others?_ And she found she didn’t want to know the answers to those questions.

In the meantime, he was gesticulating wildly about chemical compounds. “Wait, hold on, they haven’t quite covered all of that yet at my school,” Molly said, “could you go back a bit?”

“Where?”

“Here,” she pointed at one set that looked like the connector toys she had when she was much younger. “And don’t just read off the chemical names, I can read them just fine. But I don’t understand what exactly they are and why they’re so exciting. Break it down and tell me how.”

He made a face. “That takes too long.”

“I’m not a ruddy mind reader,” she scowled, “you were saying something about some pretty cool experiments, but I don’t understand what they are and how you can do it with,” she waved at the picture, “this.”

So he flipped to the next page and showed exactly what kinds of experiments could be done, what he himself had tried to do, and which ones had been successful and which had failed and why. And then he went on to point out the ones he had yet to try, mostly because they were dangerous to try without the proper equipment and safety measures, some of which the school didn’t have. He only stopped when he ran out of breath, which was impressive, since Molly knew most people would’ve paused at least five paragraphs ago.

“Really? I would’ve thought this school would have top-of-the-line equipment,” Molly interjected.

“So did I,” he glared at the book as if it was the thing responsible. “Apparently, they don’t ‘cater to the whims of the scientifically impertinent’,” and she could practically see the quotes above his head. “But isn’t that where breakthroughs come from? Curiosity and impertinence?”

She thought of the various scientists they’d covered in class, and she had to agree. “Maybe they’ll let you do that in university,” she suggested.

“Maybe,” he said, but he was a little less depressed, so she was happy about that. “But that will take for _ever_.”

“Why, what year are you?” she asked.

He stuck his chin out. “Year 13.”

 _What?_ He barely looked older than she did. And he was _smart,_ certainly, but… “Are, are you a genius?” she stammered, as if she wasn’t sure if that was the right question to ask.

He look surprised, then pleased. “Yes,” he said, “I’m fourteen, but they kept me back at Year 13 so I’d have some kind of ‘socialization among peers'.”

Apparently, whoever _they_ were, weren’t smart enough to realize that they weren’t doing a good job of that. “So you’re practically at uni level already,” she said, not adding that for him, university was not as far off as he made it sound earlier, “but they want you to have something like a normal school life?”

“Didn’t I just say that?” he pouted.

“Just checking,” she said peaceably, but he still looked irritated. Bother it. “The last bell will ring in ten minutes, and I’ll have to pretend to have been part of the visiting group unless the older kids tell on me. Would you happen to know which class I’m supposed to be in?”

“Will you tell on me?” the boy asked after a beat.

Molly snorted. “I should be asking you that. We’d both be in trouble if I’m caught, right?”

Something like a smile crossed his face, and he got up, pocketing the apple core. “Who was your escort?” he asked. Molly told him, and his eyes went unfocused for a couple of seconds. “Right. I know where he is,” he said briskly. “Follow me.” And for all that they were close to being the same height, he moved faster than she thought possible, and she was gasping by the time they slowed down to a filled classroom.

“Shh!” he hissed at her, but she didn’t have any breath to argue, only glared at him. He ignored the glare, instead, he pulled a small bottle from his pocket and handed it to her. “All right, take a seat closest to the window close to the rear. Professor Eaton tends to look towards the door, but not at the window.”

“So how will he not be looking at the door when I try to get in?”

Now he grinned, a quick, vicious thing. “Wrong question. The right question is, How fast can you run around the building so that you can grease open that window and reach that desk right as everyone is leaving after the bell rings?”

“What?” She stared at him. “But you’ll--!”

“Sh!” he hissed again. “Hurry up, we’ve got three minutes!”

She glared, then raced around the building, which, fortunately for her, wasn’t too far, since it was the end of it, and found the students that she’d been looking at from the opposite end. She made sure that nobody was paying attention and dutifully greased the window hinges. Just as the bell rang, the door opened with a loud squeak, and all eyes turned. She waited as they boys started to leave, then she pulled open the window and slid in, then shut it closed. Her heart pounded in her chest as the teacher yelled at the boy, who only shrugged and walked away, but everyone else was already trying to push their way out of the classroom.

As Molly pushed her way through the exiting crowd to rejoin her schoolmates, a familiar voice hissed in her ear, “Nice seeing you again, Ollie.”

She turned, but saw no one in the crush of, well, other boys. “Billy?” If that was Billy after all this time, well, he’d certainly lost quite a bit of weight. And how did she not realize he was a bloody genius back then? And then she noticed her hand was empty of the grease bottle. Of course he’d get it back, he’d probably need it to grease another exit sooner or later.

Surprisingly enough, Billy’s plan worked, and her temporary truancy during the field trip went unnoticed. That it served to underline her idea of being easily unnoticed was a little depressing, but not as depressing as actually getting caught would. However, she worked even more diligently as an office helper to make up for getting away with sneaking off, even if she did have more than a bit of help doing so.

***

“Daddy, I don’t want to go to school,” Bobby complained.

“Technically, it’s not really school,” Sherlock started, but paused when Molly nudged him. Hard. “Why not?” He would’ve thought, out of both their children, Bobby would have an easier time at school, with his pleasant behavior and intelligence.

His son pouted. “When we had to do story time, none of the girls wanted to be a princess, so I hadda be one. I wanted to be a villager, but Donna beat me to the last one!”

Sherlock frowned. “What story was that?”

“Sleeping Beauty.”

He looked at Molly for the answer, and she murmured the summary in his ear. Then he made a face. “I wouldn’t want to be the princess, either, utterly dull,” he muttered. Molly snorted. “But why would they make you a princess? Why not a prince?”

Now his son was a mixture of embarrassment and anger. “Cos I’m the shortest in class,” and his face practically screamed of the injustice of it all. Molly and Sherlock could sympathize, each for different reasons. “And I ran out before Jimmy could kiss me, cos kisses are gross!” his face twisted with disgust.

Both his parents kept straight faces. “Well, at least his teacher’s progressive,” Sherlock murmured.

Molly rolled her eyes. “Let me guess, I’ll have to be the one chatting with Mrs. Markham about this,” she groaned as Eliza gave her little brother her condolences. She’d been put into the princess role, too, until she learned to raise her hand quickly and stomp on her classmates’ feet for the non-princess ones.

“Thank you,” her husband kissed her on the cheek.

She rolled her eyes again. “Tell them a feel-better story while I call his teacher, would you?” she said. But before she stepped out of the bedroom, she shot her husband a look. “And no trouble-making, mister.”

He raised his eyebrows and hands in a gesture of innocence, which had her smirking. When Molly had gone, he leaned towards his children. “Would you like to hear the story of an awesome girl who became a princess by accident?” he said.

“How does one accidentally become a princess?” Bobby frowned.

Sherlock leaned back and smiled. “When one is disguised, of course,” he said.

Eliza grinned. “This is a made-up story, right?” she bounced on her bed. She was slowly learning the difference between fiction and fact, and while part of Sherlock rejoiced in her perspicacity, the fatherly part of him wished his little girl wasn’t growing up so fast. He rather hoped both parts of him learned to deal with the dichotomy before she reached puberty.

“I’m sure you’ll find it in Shakespeare, but no, this is a real story. Mostly,” Sherlock grinned back. “This is the story of Clever Molly and how she rescued Prince Scott from his stultifyingly dreadful life.” He put a finger up. “Stultifyingly’ means ‘to make futile and frustratingly dull’, like the way Anderson makes my brain feel on a case.” The children snickered. While they’d never met said man on a case, they’d heard the horror stories from their father. “Anyways, once upon a time, there was a girl called Clever Molly because, well, she was awfully clever. She could do practically anything she set her mind to. One of them was disguising herself as a boy, simply because she could and she had an awful lot of fun when she did.

“On one of those jaunts, she came across a boy who was locked in a small room. ‘Why are you locked up in here?’ she asked.

“ ‘Because I wanted to be,’ the boy rolled his eyes.

“Well, it was awfully rude, but he didn’t want to admit to someone he thought was a boy that he was scared. ‘Come on, then, let’s get out of here and have some fun,’ Clever Molly said.

“The boy stared at her, but did as she asked. After all, he could see this person was clever and he didn’t even know it was Clever Molly. Soon, they found themselves exploring the ruins of an old building, and having a small picnic, and learning all sorts of things about each other, except, well, their names. Before they knew it, the sun was going down. Prince Scott, for that was his name, said, ‘I suppose you’ll be going home, then?’ But he didn’t want his new friend to go.

“Clever Molly also looked sad. ‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘I had an awfully good time, but I need to escape the monsters that guard the doors. I’d just barely escaped them earlier. Since you know this place well, do you know another exit?’

“Prince Scott nodded. ‘Do as I say, but before you leave, you must tell me your name.’

“She nodded back. If she could trust him with her escape, she could surely trust him with her name. ‘My name is Clever Molly. What’s your name, friend?’ And the prince, who was usually so careful with his name, as you should be in fairy tales and real life, told her ‘Prince Scott’, because now they were friends. So Clever Molly escaped the monsters with the help of her friend, Prince Scott.

“Prince Scott told his parents about her later (later enough so that she would be safe, just in case), and they said that if Clever Molly ever came back to their kingdom, she would surely be made a princess for her cleverness and daring. And that inspired Prince Scott to be more clever and daring himself, to prove himself worthy of her. Of course, Clever Molly did return, but not in her boy disguise, and she was made princess. However, she insisted that she still be called Clever Molly, because that was who she was, not her princess title. And she and Prince Scott lived together happily ever after.”

Molly grinned as she rejoined them all on the bed. “Prince Scott and Clever Molly?” she asked, quirking an eyebrow at her husband.

He nodded, then kissed her forehead. “Well, Princess Molly and Prince Scott, to be precise,” he said, then smirked.

She smirked back. “And we must always be precise, musn’t we?” she murmured.

“Can we do Clever Molly and Prince Scott instead?” Bobby asked. “That way, there’s no kissy stuff. And I can be Clever Molly dressed up like a boy.”

“I’ll ask your teacher,” Molly raised an eyebrow at her husband, who only grinned proudly at his son. “Speaking of, I’ll have to leave soon if I’m to meet her in forty minutes. Sherlock, dinner’s on the stove, you can reheat in the microwave if you have to. And no dessert until after dinner. I can tell if you’ve cheated.”

“Why are you looking at me?” Sherlock pouted.

“Behave,” she said, and kissed him on the cheek. She did the same for her daughter and son. “When I come back, you should either be working on homework or reading a non-quiescent princess story.”

“My clever, clever wife,” Sherlock pulled her to him for a good snog.

“Ewww,” Bobby said, temporarily derailed from asking what “quiescent” meant.

His sister only giggled as their silly parents looked every bit in love, as if neither of their children caused them to be called for a teacher’s meeting. And once their mother left, Eliza waved her hand in front of her dazed father’s face and asked, “What’s quiescent mean? Is that a bad thing?”


	4. Chapter 4

1992: House Cleaner

Her next job, one that actually paid, was helping her parents and younger sister clean houses when she was thirteen and had to start studying for her GCSEs. She actually kept her cleaning job for a while, her mom scheduling it so that Molly and Anna could come in on the weekends when nobody was home, while her parents came in every other morning while people were at work. It suited Molly just fine, since she was getting into that lovely phase of adolescence where everything feels awkward, from hair, to boys, to bras (nope, not yet, unfortunately), to height (boys were suddenly getting taller and that wasn’t fair). She couldn’t even depend on the office helpers, because Carolyn and her family had moved to Scotland the year before, Gwen had transferred to a public school just this year, and Jeffrey had his own battles with the student government to deal with, on top of dealing with actual GCSEs and the impending sixth form. Molly didn’t want to add her private miseries to her former mentor’s battles, so she kept to herself at school.

However, washing, dusting, vacuuming, sweeping and mopping were all things she could do competently away from school, especially when there were no other boys to bother her other than her brother. Mr. Hooper would say, “And that’s as it should be,” while her mother would none-too-gently punch his arm. Mrs. Hooper knew their Molly was smarter than her parents, but she wanted to bolster her daughter’s self-confidence at this shaky time in her life. She knew Molly was meant for more than cleaning houses, but wouldn’t tell her husband that, at least for now. She also knew Molly wouldn’t stay his little girl forever, she would have to grow up and be her own woman someday, but right here, right now, her parents could believe that they could shelter Molly from the world’s ills, including nasty little children who didn’t know what a princess Molly was.

At school, Molly has started wearing skirts and dresses as part of her uniform, and boys suddenly see her as a girl, but not a pretty one. The girls, however, don’t quite accept the change, and some take to taunting her in the loo, away from the teachers’ protection. Even though her mother has told her the girls are just jealous about her freedom of sartorial choice and boys are slow to appreciate an intelligent woman, Molly’s sudden desire to be accepted by her peers and her hormones influencing her emotions cause her to react in the most unpredictable ways. Sometimes, she’d cry, which was mortifyingly childish, and sometimes, she’d stammer back insults, which was almost as bad. She’s only grateful that her hair is still short, so that gives the other girls one less advantage, since she’s seen how they pull hair to get their victims close enough to scratch and punch. But envying their long locks is a new, and unwelcome, change, especially since her hair is barely down to her chin and must be tidied up with a couple of hair clips.

In class, however, teachers only see that Molly is a bright young girl, albeit with shorter hair, and a diligent student. At home, her family sees her run to her room straight from school, then lock her door and cry noisily for a time. Afterwards, a blotchy-faced teen emerged from the bedroom, and nobody makes any mention of what has happened or why it’s happened. Molly joins Anna in helping their mother prepare dinner, and her father listens to the radio while either dusting or doing some kind of cleaning. “Be a shame if people saw my own home was a shambles after cleaning theirs,” he would say, but really, his family knew he was proud of his job and loved what he did, even at home. He’d even trim the grass on Fridays, which made their mum proud that she didn’t have to nag at her husband for, unlike other wives. 

As for Brian, he was in sixth form already and studying to get into uni for scholarship, which meant he was too busy to put in time for the family business. He was good enough to qualify for a sports scholarship, as he was captain of their rugby team, but took his father’s advice not to totally depend on it. And their da should know, since his left knee blew out during a practice game, and he was actually a professional at the time. He knew his sister was going through a rough time at school, but not knowing how to help aside from threatening to knock a few heads, was frustrated enough to leave it alone. He loved his sister, but he honestly didn’t know how to deal with this suddenly-teenaged, hormonal girl whose mates had become likewise thick-headed. He was smart enough, however, not to say it to Molly’s face.

And Mr. Hooper was smart enough to expand their business. On the advice of a few of their customers, he stuck to cleaning only the really big homes in town, and from there, advertised to other towns. It wasn’t long before Molly’s weekends had her in neighboring towns, and then, even as far as London! Well, a couple of places outside London, but it was close. They were really long days for her, but honestly, they were even longer for her parents, who usually spaced them out over the week. The furthest homes they saved for the weekends, and brought Molly and Anna along. Brian helped out when he could, but he was either at rugby practice (the family managed to shoehorn time to watch the actual games) or studying at the library. Occasionally, he’d get a ride with them on an away game, during which Mr. Hooper would have some father-son bonding time and Molly would be both proud and envious of her older brother, which was a little confusing for her.

But work kept her busy, and she was happy to spend time with her family because they made more sense than her classmates. And she was happy to teach Anna at work and at home while her parents were hard at work. She was also happy to find that her hands were steady when it came to cleaning, even if she was less skilled at sports than Brian. And while she hoped she would someday make friends at school, she knew now wasn’t the time, as a handful of bullies made clear. That leaves her free and clear to daydream as she cleans, draping the furniture with sheets if they aren’t already covered, and then dusting to her heart’s content.

They had just picked up a new out-of-London home, and Molly was covering the furniture. Anna was washing dishes in the kitchen, their father was cleaning the bathroom, and their mother was covering furniture upstairs. It wasn’t long before Molly was dusting away, and she suspected her mother beat her to dusting, even if it was a new house. She opened the step-ladder and started dusting off a large print of a family, the parents looking familiar in a mildly-comforting way, with a tall, thin ginger-haired son and an almost-as-tall but just as thin dark-haired son. She kind of liked the looks of the younger son, he looked more than a bit handsome in his non-smiling way. She smiled at the picture, as if it would force the brothers to smile back. She wonders why the older brother looks so stern, even though their parents are smiling. And she wonders if the younger brother will ever find someone to make him happy, because while he isn’t as stern as his older brother, he’s not smiling, either. She’s fairly sure that the photographer caught them at the least-irritated point in that session, which is why this picture is so big, rather than hiding in a dusty album somewhere. She’s also fairly sure that this is a recent print, although the posh-looking clothes the brothers sport could be older. She may be a girl, but she’s not that good at fashion, it seems. Perhaps the mystery brothers were fashion designers? Maybe they could teach her a bit, like the fairy godmothers in those fairy tales, and she almost giggled. 

Caught up in her daydreams, she doesn’t notice the silence from the bathroom, nor the swearing, until her father burst into the living room. “Grab your sister, we’ve got to go,” he said.

“What’s wrong?” Molly asked, scared by the look on her father’s face.

“Your Nan had a heart attack,” he said brusquely, and ran up the stairs.

Molly had enough presence of mind not to drop her duster, but only just barely. She ran into the kitchen, and, once she was sure nothing was in Anna’s hands (she learnt her lesson years ago), she said, “Anna, come on, time to go.”

Her baby sister blinked in confusion, wiping her hands on the dishtowel. “Why?”

“It’s Nana,” Molly said, trying to keep the fear out of her voice, but failing. “Daddy said we have to go.”

“Nana,” Anna repeated, her eyes already filling with tears, but she ran after her sister, who hugged her and led her out of the house.

Brian catches up with them at the hospital, having just come from the library, and the Hoopers, most of whom are wearing “Hooper’s Cleaning” on the backs of their t-shirts, wait nervously until a doctor meets with them. And they don’t go back to Sunday cleaning, at least, not for six months, and even then, it takes a year before Mr. and Mrs. Hooper are able to go back to out-of-London homes.

By that time, however, Molly’s caught up in her GCSEs, and doesn’t go back to the house with the fashionable brothers, nor does she remember them. After all, her grandmother had passed away, and she’s got more important things on her mind, like schoolwork and cleaning homes that didn’t have large family portraits.

***

“Once upon a time, there was a family of cleaners. Mr. Cleaner was the father, he did the heavy lifting, the really nasty toilet work, and anything that needed a ladder. Mrs. Cleaner did the dusting, the dishes, and would be the one holding the ladder, because you can never be too careful. Their son, Cleaner Junior, helped out when he was younger, but when he got older, he got into rugby and his parents made sure he was able to play in every single scrum. They also had two daughters, Miss Cleaner and Little Miss, who helped with the dishes and dusting.

“The Cleaners were good at their job, so good, in fact, that they were hired to do only the big houses, a bit like manors, if you will.” Molly ignored the raised eyebrow from her husband, and went on, “So you see, unlike Cinderella, they didn’t need anyone to save them from their jobs, because it was their jobs that allowed them to have a roof over their heads, enough money to raise three children, and money to spare for movies, nice clothes, and the occasional dinner date.

“However, Mr. and Mrs. Cleaner worried about their middle child, Miss Cleaner. Junior and Little Miss were doing well in school, academically and socially, but in spite of her academic excellence, Miss Cleaner was having a rough go of it. You see, she’d just started hitting that point in life where one becomes a teenager--”

“Thirteen, you mean,” Eliza interrupted. She and her father had had a long talk about when she could do things like wear makeup, pierce her ears and all that, and when they determined on a date, they figured “thirteen” was the magical number. But they also figured that if she was pretty enough without needing to impale her earlobes or slather chemical products on her face when she reached that age (her father’s words, of course), then “seventeen” would be an acceptable age to start experimenting with said things. Her mother had been a bit put out that she hadn’t been included in this particular discussion, but when Eliza explained that some of her classmates were already wearing makeup and had pierced ears, well, Molly had had to have a good sit-down. Eliza was still six years old, after all!

“Yes, thirteen,” Molly smiled, in better humor now than she was when she’d first heard about the makeup-and-ear-piercing talk. “Well, Miss Cleaner was never the best in social situations in the first place, but she was hit by things like hormones and sudden awareness of social pressure and boys,” her husband snorted, and she not-too-subtly nudged him, “and she was all out of sorts. Ordinarily, she was a nice girl, and a cheerful one at that, but neither she nor her family expected the teenage years to hit so hard and so suddenly. So the Cleaners tried to cheer her up, they honestly did. But when one is a teenager, one forgets that one’s parents used to be teenagers themselves once upon a time,” and she shrugged, smiling helplessly. “So Miss Cleaner tried to keep her emotions bottled up and not bother anybody. It didn’t work.”

“So did Miss Cleaner cheer up?” Bobby asked.

Molly nodded. “Eventually. You see, her parents taught her, like we’re teaching you, that nobody’s really perfect, especially when they’re teenagers. They might look happy and put-together on the outside, but on the inside, or when nobody’s watching, they’re going through things, too. They let Miss Cleaner look at the teenagers’ rooms of the homes they were cleaning, let her see that even rich children have diaries they pour their hearts into (not that she’d read past the first page), that they have moth-holes in their pants like anyone else,” and here, the children and Sherlock snickered, and Molly rolled her eyes, “and that they use anti-inflammatory products for their face because they have pimples like everyone else. And the really sad ones had things like alcohol and worse hidden in their rooms.” Molly’s expression turned sober. “And that’s when Miss Cleaner realized she’d been silly in being jealous of other people, thinking they had perfect lives, when not even the rich could claim that.

“Your father goes through people’s lives after they’re dead, and if they’re lucky, while they’re still alive, just like Miss Cleaner used to, and he learns things about them. Sometimes, it’s to save a life, and sometimes, it’s to bring one to justice. But Miss Cleaner had to learn for herself that nobody’s perfect, and while it was through others’ dirty laundry, in a manner of speaking,” and she sighed while her husband unrepentantly snorted again, “she did learn that lesson.” Then she briefly squeezed her son’s hand. “To answer your question, yes, she did cheer up, but not because she was happy at other people’s sadness, but because she had to learn something important about others before she could return to her original sunny nature. And then she lived happily ever after, because, well, she was happy.” And she shrugged awkwardly, smiling as she did so, “The end.”

“That’s not the end,” Bobby declared.

“It’s not?” Molly blinked as Sherlock smiled.

“Nope,” her son said, popping his “p” like his father. Molly refrained from snorting, but couldn’t help the little smile on her face. “Miss Cleaner grew up, married a handsome young man from one of the homes she cleaned, and lived happily ever after. Isn’t that how the stories go?” He turned to look at his father, who nodded far too solemnly for his own good.

“Yes, that’s _exactly_ how it ended,” Sherlock intoned, making Molly want to roll up a newspaper and swat him on the head. As if he could divine what she was thinking, as he tended to during the worst times, he smirked at her. That man. “Mind you, that handsome young man got the better end of the deal, because Miss Cleaner was still a lovely, bright soul, whereas he had one of those sad rooms she looked at. Thankfully, when they met later and he’d grown up a bit, he’d cleaned up his room and his life.” And he gave his wife a brief kiss on the lips. “And he is so much happier now.”

For once, it’s Eliza wrinkling her nose and not Bobby. “I thought this story was for _me,_ not you two,” she said.

Bobby rolled his eyes at his sister. “It’s _always_ gonna end in kissy stuff for them,” he said, resigned, in a manner like a certain uncle of theirs. “Don’t you know that by now?”

Molly grinned into Sherlock’s kiss, but returned it nonetheless. Sherlock smiled back, then continued snogging his wife. Both their children went to sleep, not because they were tired, but for their own sanity. Seriously, how many times could their parents get away with kissing like that and not giving them a new sibling?


	5. Chapter 5

1995: Delivery Biker

When Molly Hooper was 16, her hair finally growing past her shoulders and her head firmly in her books, she dreamed of baking the perfect tray of cinnamon buns, just like her mum. Just the smell of the fresh buns got her salivating, and joy that her taste buds had when a piping hot cinnamon bun touched down was nearly indescribable. She’s sure than she could bake something grand and delicious like that, all she has to do is put her mind to it. She’s also slowly giving some thought as to future careers, and thinks she could give working at a bakery a go, just like her mum when she was younger. While her fashion sense still left much to be desired, Molly was optimistic that she could excel at another feminine skill. After all, if Brian could do it (well, he could cook the perfect blueberry pancakes, which was his favorite), then so could she! Besides, she was aces at biology and chemistry, and wasn’t baking just another way to expound on both?

When she proposed this to her mother, Molly’s mum sighed, which didn’t sound promising. “All right,” she said, “but don’t expect everything to be perfect straight off. Just think of this as practice, all right?”

“Thanks, Mum!” Molly hugged her. And for the next couple of weeks, Mrs. Hooper starts off small, teaching her older daughter how to make biscuits and scones. But Molly’s biscuits are like little bricks and her scones are disturbingly gooey, no matter how close Mrs. Hooper watches her. Molly can do scrambled eggs and sausage just fine, even porridge is safe for her, but the pastries have developed into something of a hurdle. Molly stubbornly tried to improve her baking skills for another two weeks, but tossing the hard-as-rock biscuits and sickeningly-gooey scones all fourteen days dishearten even the stubbornest Hooper. “Right, fine,” the teenaged girl sighed, “baking is not my gift.”

While her dad gave a none-too-subtle sigh of relief, Mrs. Hooper hugged her older daughter. “That’s all right,” she said, “you’re a bright girl, and a fair stove cook. It’s just desserts aren’t your style.”

“Can I use these to make a house for my art project?” Anna asked, poking at the last batch of Molly-made biscuits.

“Fine,” Molly said, then buried her face in her mum’s shoulder. Another girlish dream of hers perfectly doomed, she thought, not caring how melodramatic it sounded.

Her skills in the science lab, along with her reliability, however, were only improved by her culinary experimentation. One afternoon, her classmate and sometime-lab partner Jessica asked, “Molly? Do you think you could help me out with a job?”

For a moment, Molly’s heart had leapt at the thought of making a friend, but perhaps this wasn’t that day. “Um, what is it?” she said, already used to hiding her disappointment.

“It’s delivery, and I know you’ve got a bike,” her ginger classmate grinned. “One of my coworkers left, and we’re looking for a new worker. He was kind of a flake, so I’m not sorry to see him go, but we need somebody reliable… um, today.”

“ _Today?_ ” Molly echoed. Jessica nodded. “Are you mad?”

Jessica nodded again. “Look, you’re reliable, polite, and you’ve got a bike. Everything else we can teach you. Please, please, pleeeeeeeease?”

Molly’s mouth quirked into a half-smile. “You sound just like my little sister. Fine, all right. And the spending money would be lovely, especially for books.”

“Thanks, you’re a lifesaver!” her classmate hugged her impulsively.

That afternoon, Jessica introduced Molly to her boss-slash-aunt, Auntie Millie. She insisted Molly call her that, too, and Molly was too shy not to. It was the first time an adult outside of her extended family asked her to call them by their first name, but she kept forgetting and would stammer, “Mrs., um, Auntie Millie.” It tickled Auntie Millie enough to keep her on, and it turned out that Auntie Millie had a bakery, which was a dream come true for Molly, but not all of her customers were able-bodied. So she enlisted the help of a chosen few to help her deliver her baked goods to the elderly or infirm around town, but had to whittle her workforce size due to rising costs and untrustworthy individuals (“like that blockhead Charlie, but never mind him”).

So Molly was fitted with a boxy backpack-like contraption, labeled pastries and bread loaded into it, and given a printout with names and directions, a blue zipped bag, along with a tart and a small carton of milk. “Don’t worry, that’s not your pay, love, I just don’t want you to be sampling the customers’ wares,” Auntie Millie winked at her. “And it’s not complicated. All you have to do is knock on the door, say you’re from Auntie Millie’s, have them sign the paper and put the money in the blue bag, and give them their pastry. Simple. Just be your sweet little self, Molly Hooper!”

Then the large woman hugged her to within an inch of her breath, and only let go when Molly’s arm-flapping for air got her attention. Molly vaguely wondered if mad enthusiasm ran in the family, but gamely nodded with a soft “Okay”, and, once she got her balance, sped off to the first of nine customers.

She found, to her surprise, that it really was that easy. To her relief, she found that the biggest orders were at the top of the list, so she wasn’t carrying a heavy load all the way through, and the route was planned so that it was basically one continuous circuit, rather than having to backtrack through the same areas. Some customers asked that she put the pastries or bread into the oven or into marked containers, but other than that, she found that actually bringing people food was a joy when she didn’t have to bake it. (She’s tried baking. Her mother said Brian had a better hand at it than she did.)

And when she came back to Auntie Millie’s bakery with an empty carrier and a full blue bag, she was given an envelope with £30. “Really?” Molly gasped.

The large woman nodded. “You did me a great favor, and I hope that you’d consider taking this on part-time,” she said. “Jessica told me you work weekends cleaning, but if you wouldn’t mind doing this two or three times a week after school, I’d really appreciate it. Mind you, the rate wouldn’t be the same as today, but as I said, you helped us in a tight spot.”

“I’ll have to ask my mum,” Molly said, “thank you.”

So Molly talked to her parents about the job when they got back from their job, and her mother said, “Only if it’s twice or three times a week. Any more, and you might slip in your studies.”

“What your mum said,” her dad agreed, “I’m proud of you.”

“And perhaps you could treat your younger but taller sister once a month,” Anna added. It was true, Anna was taller than Molly and she was only twelve, while Molly hadn’t grown any taller than she had the year before.

Still, Molly snorted, and hugged her family all around, then called her brother off at uni. “Congratulations for getting a bakery job that doesn’t involve you actually baking,” he clearly smirked over the phone. It was a pity he couldn’t see her stick her tongue out at him, but then, they’d be making faces at each other all night, and thankfully, this was only a landline.

“Hush, you,” Molly grimaced. “I’m going to be brilliant at this and ace my studies, unlike someone on the other end of this line.” They kept bickering for a few more minutes until her father asked for the phone, and Molly gratefully surrendered the receiver.

Molly was brilliant at it, however. While she might not have been as strong as her older brother, she was careful, fast, polite, and managed to get a few more customers on her route. The fact that she was smaller than the average bakery deliverer, however, meant that she had to make a return trip, but the way the route worked out, it turned into something like a sloppy figure eight. Jessica, for her part, found another part-time worker, a large, friendly lad named George, and they all got along well enough for people who barely saw each other longer than a few minutes in and out the door.

A year later, she’s developed enough upper body strength to comfortably haul her carrier, as well as toned legs from the constant biking. Jessica teases that the job makes them brawny as well as brainy, Molly won’t complain. In fact, she enjoys the customers as well, seeing as they’re more friendly to her than, say, most of her classmates.

Which is why, when she called out, “Mr. Peterson? Hello?” she wasn’t expecting to hear a young man’s cracked voice answer, “He’s not here!”

Molly frowned, then took off the carrier. “Where is he?” she yelled at the locked door.

“ _OW!_ My parents took him for his checkup! Where are you, you _cursed_ devil?”

She’s had some strange conversations, especially since the customers were elderly, but this is ridiculous. “Do you need any help?” she asked, pulling out her mobile, one of the few splurges she’d indulged in with her added pay.

“Do you have arms of steel and nerves just as steady?”

She wondered if Mr. Peterson’s grandson, assuming that he was such, was insane, or had offed her customer, or both. “What’s going on?” Molly frowned again.

She heard a yowl, a muffled thump, another, louder thump, and a great flurry of curse words following shortly thereafter. “I take it the bloody cat’s a saint for _you_ , then?” the young man’s voice warbled and cracked at odd places. It was one of the few things Molly didn’t envy boys, even Brian went through something similar when he was fourteen.

“Mr. Peterson doesn’t have a cat!” Molly retorted.

“He does now!” the grandson yelled back. “At least, my _parents_ thought it would be a good idea for him to have a _companion!_ Why didn’t they get a _dog?_ ” She heard a loud hiss, and is quite sure it’s the teen, not the cat. “Yeah, I hissed at you, you little _devil_ ,” he growled, and she giggled.

“I just came by to drop off his bread,” she said, “should I come back later for the payment, or do you have it?”

“Oh, it’s somewhere here,” she heard him grumble, “hold on, wait until I know that little demon isn’t going to try and escape!”

She shook her head, then opened the carrier and got out his bread. “Do you want me to put it in the breadbox, or will you do that?” she asked.

“Just a moment!” he thundered. Well, she supposed he would, if his voice hadn’t cracked in several places. Honestly, it was quite impressive how out of control it was.

A few moments later, she heard from directly behind the door, “Hold on, I’m opening it,” and she held out the bread in readiness.

And was promptly greeted by a cat to the face. “Mmmph!” she did her best to hold on to the cat, as well as the bread, in spite of her shock. And to her further surprise, it purred and made itself more comfortable on her shoulder. “Oh,” she murmured, “you’re a pretty kitty. Yes, you are.” She smiled, and stroked the marmalade cat, who continued to purr. Without looking up, she asked, “What’s his name?”

“Jack,” the grandson muttered. “Here you – oh.”

And faster than she can process, he took the bread, shoved money at her, grabbed the cat and put it on his own face. Then he shut and locked the door.

She barely saw him, just that he was tall, dark-haired, had an awful lot of pimples, and looked rather shocked. Perhaps he was surprised that she managed to tame, what, Jack rather than himself. “You’re welcome!” she shook her head.

Then she giggled. He actually put the cat on his face. Was he that embarrassed by his looks? Probably, if that and a quickly-locked door was his reaction to seeing someone. Gosh, but he had lovely pale eyes, even if his attitude and complexion was horrible. _And that’s why you need a boyfriend,_ she groaned mentally, _because you’re gone on some idiot who’s even sillier than you are when it comes to their looks._ She sighed, then hoisted the carrier onto her back, and pedaled back onto her route.

The next time she saw Mr. Peterson, she asked about his grandson, but whatever new medication he was on affected his memory. She had to ask him about the payment three times before he actually remembered where he put it, and she had to remind him how much he owed her. “I’m sorry, dear,” he said, “it’s for the bread, yes?”

Molly was forcibly reminded of her Nana all of a sudden, and had to blink back unwanted tears as she nodded. “Yes, yes, it is,” she said softly. “Do you have someone looking in after you?”

“Hm? Yes, my daughter, she calls me every so often. I keep telling her I’m her father, not her child, but she won’t listen.”

“I’m sure she’s just worried,” Molly said earnestly. “Promise me you’ll call 999 if you’re not feeling well, all right?”

He nodded. “You’re such a nice young lady. You remind me of my daughter,” Mr. Peterson said.

Molly smiled, then waved. “Take care, Mr. Peterson,” she said.

Two days later, Molly was surprised to find that Mr. Peterson was taken off her route. “His daughter’s family took him to their hospital,” Auntie Millie explained gently, “he had an episode not long after you left the other night. He called the paramedics, thanks to you.”

“Thanks to me?” Molly asked.

Auntie Millie nodded. “He said the nice young lady told him to call 999 if he wasn’t feeling well, so he did.”

“Oh, okay,” Molly found tears coming to her eyes again, but this time, Auntie Millie hugged her gently. “I’m so glad,” she sniffled, “oh, I’m so sorry about your apron.”

“Hush,” the large woman smiled, offering a tissue, which the girl gladly accepted. “Are you all right to do the rest of the route?”

“Yes,” Molly nodded, rubbing at her nose, “let me just wash up…”

“Yes, yes,” Auntie Millie said, “you do that, then. Thank you, love.”

Molly stayed with the job for the rest of her school term, but quit when she graduated. That was because she had another job lined up, one that wouldn’t involve sweet elderly types.

***

Sherlock wasn’t in the mood to tell a bedtime story, but his children, sensing some odd guilt hanging about him, badgered him into telling one. Molly stayed out of the argument, as she was in the living room on the phone with Lestrade, going over the details of the autopsy and getting details about the case because her husband was suddenly close-mouthed about it. “A happy ending story,” Bobby emphasized by frowning hard.

His father scowled, but then cleared his throat, and his children sat back against their pillows, relieved. “Once upon a time,” he started, “there was a silly boy called Billy the Fool. Billy the Fool was quite vain, you see, and he thought he was the handsomest lad in the whole land. His parents agreed, even if his older brother didn’t, and so he strutted and preened about like the silliest peacock you’ve ever seen.

“But because of his vanity, a curse was put on him so that he would be humbled. He would speak the truth in a horrible voice, and he would be covered in spots like the spottiest leopard. The first would make his heart ugly, and the second would make his appearance ugly. Billy the Fool was so ashamed that he hated to leave the house, because people would laugh and stare at him, and if they couldn’t see him, he’d be certain to yell the most hateful things in the most dreadful voice.

“One day, Billy the Fool’s parents decided they should all go visit Billy’s grandfather and bring him a gift. You should always bring your grandparents a gift,” he reminded his children, “even if it’s something small. Well, this time, his parents gave Billy’s grandfather a cat. This cat was magic and reflected the heart of whoever held it. If it was a nice person, the cat would be perfectly nice and lovely, but if it was a horrible person, oh, it became a hissing, spitting creature!

“Billy’s grandfather was a perfectly nice and kind old man, but he had to leave the magic cat with Billy for a short time. And Billy, well, you know how perfectly horrible he was.” Sherlock’s children nodded, and he sighed inwardly. “So the cat became a dreadful nightmare when Billy the Fool was supposed to care for it.

“Thankfully, there was a knock at the door, and a sweet girlish voice saying that she brought delicious bread, calmed both angry boy and beast. But Billy the Fool was afraid to open the door, for if the girl looked as beautiful as she sounded, surely she would be afraid of his spotted face and his horrid voice. Then she would run away, taking his grandfather’s bread with her. But it was possible she wouldn’t be afraid, and therefore give the bread to Billy.”

“So did Billy open the door?” Bobby asked.

Sherlock nodded. “Billy the Fool tried to be wise and open the door just a crack, so that the cat wouldn’t escape. But the magic cat did, and leapt at the nice bread delivery girl, because it knew her heart was good.

“Billy the Fool was ashamed, however, seeing instantly how very sweet and very charming the girl was, as opposed to his horrible face and horrible heart. So he grabbed the cat and the bread, and practically tossed the money at the poor girl, then locked the door behind him.”

“That was rude,” Eliza declared.

“Yes, it was,” her father agreed. “But Billy forced himself to be civil to the magic cat, and to his surprise, the magic cat was civil to him as well.”

The little boy tilted his head. “And that’s how he got cured from his curse?” Bobby wondered.

Sherlock shook his head, his pale eyes flickering to Molly, who sat on the opposite end of Eliza’s bed. “No, I,” he paused, his eyes not seeing his family, but the case that had him in a bad mood in the first place. “I’m sorry,” he said, and kissed his children’s foreheads, “I can’t finish the story.”

“But you need to tell us how Billy the Fool got cured,” Bobby pouted.

“I,” he looked at his wife, who nodded, “Mummy will finish the story.”

“Daddy,” Eliza looks more disappointed than Bobby, but more understanding as well, as their father retreats to his bedroom. “Mummy? How did Billy the Fool get cured?”

Molly sighs, as she’s left with pouting children and a fitful husband. “If I tell you the ending, will you promise to go straight to sleep?” she asked.

“You know the ending?” Bobby looked at her hopefully.

His mother smiled. “Well, catch me up, and I’ll let you know.” So her children interrupt each other telling their mother _everything_ about the story so far. “All right, all right,” she put her hands up, “I’ve got it. This is how Billy the Fool got cured. Because it was less a matter of his face being ugly, but more his heart being ugly that was the real problem, it was harder to change his heart than his face. And, foolish boy that he was, he allowed the world’s ugliness to poison him further. By the time another wise man, as well as another cat, and another girl came along, many years had passed. But this time, Billy the Fool’s heart was softened, and with the magical combination, he finally got cured.” Molly looked at the doorway, then back at her children. “But once in a while, Billy the Fool slips up, because curses that start in the heart can’t be shaken off forever. But he and the girl and the cat lived happily ever after, and he goes off on adventures with his friend the wise man. The end.”

“Billy the Fool should’ve been cured forever,” Bobby pouted as his mother tucked him in.

“That would be nice,” Molly smiled, then kissed him on the cheek. “Good night, Bobby.”

“Mummy?” Eliza asked.

“Yes?” Molly said, going over to her daughter.

Her daughter pressed her lips together, her eyes intense in a familiar way. “Is Daddy going to be okay?”

Molly nodded. “He will be,” she said, “sweet dreams.” And kissed her daughter’s cheek.

Then she joined Sherlock in their bedroom. “I told them the ending already,” she said, “well, sort of. How are you doing?”

He’s sitting on the bed, his long arms wrapped around his long legs, looking miserable. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I tried…”

Molly brushed his hair back, then hugged him as if he were an overgrown child. “You did good today,” she murmured. “You set an innocent man free from jail and got the real criminal imprisoned. You did really good, Sherlock.”

He closed his eyes. “I hope so,” he said, leaning against her. “But if we caught him earlier, he wouldn’t have hurt that old man...”

“You did good,” Molly repeated, hugging him fiercely. Neither of them mention the fact that the old man in question greatly resembled Sherlock’s grandfather, but after his terse story, neither have to.

They end up still embracing each other on the bed, but Molly is the only one who falls asleep. Sherlock stays awake, his eyes not closing until the morning sun’s rays tint the curtains with a soft orange glow.


	6. Chapter 6

1997: Summer Hire (Clerical)

While Molly Hooper prided herself on keeping her head on straight, it didn’t change the fact that she was still painfully aware of her classmates and still painfully shy. It also didn’t change the fact that she had perfect hearing as well as sight, and she could listen in to her classmates’ chatting about their future plans after secondary just as well as any bystander. So she heard their daydreams about getting an office job, maybe meeting someone nice there, and earning enough to share a flat with a friend or two. There were a lot of giggles at that point, and there was no mistaking what “friend” meant in that case.

Still, she couldn’t help but daydream, too, and while her classmates chatted and gossiped, she put in application forms. After all, even she knew she couldn’t clean homes forever, and going to uni would take up more of her time and money. Besides, in spite of what her classmates thought, she could do “normal”, right? And while it was unrealistic to dream of meeting “Mr. Right” at someplace as prosaic as a workplace, surely she’d find people like herself, right? The main thing was, she’d be getting paid, which would be excellent all around, friends or no.

So Molly didn’t take a gap year. Instead, the very summer she graduated, at eighteen she went to work for the government. Nothing fancy, she was one of the many summer hires taken on to digitize, then box up the paper and photo files in the basement of an old police station before they were moved to their new location in the autumn. Well, according to the terms of her hire, it was to end in autumn, just before classes started. It was mind-numbingly boring, but it paid rather decently for a summer job.

Besides, she met some rather interesting people. There was Jonathan, the self-admitted nerd and conspiracy theorist, a short brunette with an obvious crush on the lone Asian boy in their small group. Tim, the Chinese lad, was actually two inches taller than Jonathan and, unfortunately for the latter, had a girlfriend who worked as a children’s clothing salesclerk. Cherise may have had a glamorous-sounding name, but she was as plain as Molly, with longer, lighter-colored hair. And Mrs. Latham was their supervisor, a no-nonsense woman who timed their lunch breaks practically to the second, a round woman who would otherwise coo happily at her grandchildren when they rang, but heaven help the student staff whose mobile went off.

Out of all of them, only Cherise was happy with her job, retreating into a romance novel as soon as their lunch break started, absent-mindedly picking at her salad as she read, and briskly closing said novel as soon as Mrs. Latham called them back in. Nobody minded Cherise, who was an otherwise pleasant girl, although Tim once made the mistake of asking how on earth she could go through book after book so quickly, as she had a different novel every day. It was the only time she talked during their lunch break, but the almost violent passion shocked everyone so much, even conspiracy theorist Jonathan, that they all vowed never to bring up her reading habits ever again. “Everyone’s got their hobbies,” Jonathan said, eyeing the restroom that Cherise had disappeared into, “let’s make sure hers doesn’t get her arrested.”

“It would be thoroughly ironic, especially since this week we’re going through male prostitutes,” Molly noted, and Jonathan snorted. “Well, they don’t look like boys, they’re prettier than us girls. It’s dead embarrassing.”

“That’s because it’s part of their job, looking pretty. It’s not part of yours,” Tim said, with his disturbing pragmatism before taking another large bite of his burger. They’d tried all sorts of places, including a Pret once, but only this small fast food restaurant has the ambience and food that soon-to-be-uni students liked, as well as being only a block away from the old police station.

Molly was hurt, as even she had some feminine pride, but she couldn’t argue with his statement. Cherise had her head in the clouds, or rather, in her books, and couldn’t be bothered to do anything more than braid her hair to keep it out of her face. Tim had once suggested contact lens, but the bookish girl had merely muttered something about “dry eyes” and it wasn’t brought up again. Molly, for her part, knew she could afford some decent looking clothes once in a while, but she kept getting into jobs that didn’t require them, so she made do with what she thought was cute blouses and sweaters off the Oxfam rack. At least her straight, shoulder-length hair didn’t give her any problems, and she was thankful that she hadn’t developed anything like myopia or presbyopia.

“How on earth did you manage to get a girlfriend talking like that?” Molly blurted out.

Tim blinked, then laughed. “Actually, she was dared into asking me out. I knew about it before she did, only because my classmates still haven’t caught on that I actually understand and speak English, and turned her down flat. She got mad and asked me out again. I got mad and turned her down again. We kept doing this in different places at lunch, dinner, movies, and soon, we realized we had more in common than we thought, and decided to give it a go.”

Molly shook her head. “You’re all mad, aren’t you,” she quirked a smile before drinking her soda.

“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it,” Jonathan grinned. “Madness has its uses.”

“Speaking of,” Tim said meaningfully as Cherise rejoined them.

The rest of the summer passed by uneventfully, peppered by amusing conversations about various subjects, either by browsing the police files or the telly. Only once did Cherise start a conversation, and that was completely by accident.

“Who would be your soulmate?” she asked, out of the blue.

Very, very out of the blue, as they were currently processing home invasions and talking about boring things like the weather. “What?” Jonathan goggled.

“You know,” she said in her mild tone. “The one you want to spend the rest of your life with. The one who would complete you.”

“Like that ridiculous American movie, ‘You complete me’,” Jonathan made moon eyes at her.

Cherise was unruffled. “Yes.”

The admittedly-gay lad shrugged. “Haven’t met him yet. Sometimes I think he’ll be tall, dark and handsome,” he shot a look at Tim, who rolled his eyes. “Sometimes I think he’ll be devilishly charming and great in the kitchen. Other times, I hope he’ll be rich as sin and has a thing for short, cute guys. But nobody in particular.”

“And you?” the bespectacled girl looked at Tim, who looked nervous.

“Well, I dunno,” and Jonathan guffawed. “No, really. I mean, I like Lisa, she’s a really nice girl, but she’s not my first girlfriend, and she probably won’t be my last. All I know is, my soulmate won’t be Chinese, because I’m sick of my parents thinking that that’s the only kind of girl for their son.” He grimaced, and the others shook their heads, thankful that their own parents weren’t as narrow-minded.

“And what about you?” she turned to Molly.

Molly’s mouth opened and closed a couple of times like a fish. Sure, she had her list of things, but, like Jonathan’s, they were all pretty shallow and nothing really describing someone she’d want to spend the rest of her life with. To her surprise, she’s actually thinking seriously about the answer to her coworker’s odd question. “Well, he’d have to be smart,” she closed her eyes, thinking aloud. “And nice. And respect me, you know? Because it’s one thing to be loved, and it’s a lovely thing,” she said, thinking of her parents, “but it’s also lovely to be respected by someone you respect as well.” She opened her eyes and looked at her male coworkers. “And it’s not often you get both, as a woman.”

“Sorry,” Jonathan made a face, and Tim tilted his head. “What about you, Cherise? Who’s your soulmate, and what brought this about in the first place?”

She smiled enigmatically, which gave them the second shock of the day. Sure, she would have time to see someone outside of work, they all did, but only Tim had a girlfriend and Mrs. Latham was, well, married. Who on earth was _she_ seeing?

Before they could pester her for details, Mrs. Latham came back from her chat with her grandchildren. The landline was in the office two doors down the hall in the basement, which was why the young hires would bring up random conversation topics as soon as she left. Granted, it was the first time Cherise had taken advantage of this bit of timing, but hey, that’s what made this small group interesting.

Mrs. Latham didn’t give the other three time to be frustrated over Cherise’s sudden mystery, because she announced they had another room full of files to take care of.

“I thought this was the last one,” Tim remarked.

“I thought so, too,” their supervisor said, “but since we seemed to be ahead of schedule, they’ve given us the more recent files upstairs. Most have already been moved by the office staff, but the ones that are about ten to fifteen years old are still here.”

Molly almost groaned. The original goal was that they’d only be tackling the files fifteen years and older, which meant archiving items that had water damage, age spots, termite holes, and horrible handwriting. The truly indecipherable ones were given to Mrs. Latham to go through, and while she managed to miraculously dredge meaning from most, there were a few that even her considerable talents failed, and had to be copied as-is, which usually meant it was horribly damaged beyond repair. The fact that they managed to do so with only five people on duty was nothing short of miraculous. And now the police wanted them to add to their still-unfinished task? Insane.

“I think we can do it,” she said briskly, reminding Molly uncomfortably of Mrs. Foster, her insanely optimistic biology teacher. “It’s only five more years, and they should be in better condition than the ones we’ve been dealing with.”

Cherise nodded absently, Jonathan looked stunned, and Tim sighed. Molly would shrug, but Mrs. Latham seemed to have a thing about shrugs, so she didn’t. As long as they got paid, she was fine with that. And it wasn’t like they were doing actual police work, it was only copying and occasionally transcribing files, easy work for students. The only challenges were damaged sources, and thanks to Mrs. Latham, they learned quickly how to deal with those. And like their supervisor said, these newer files should have less damage, which meant the work should be easier.

Mrs. Latham sent Cherise and Jonathan upstairs to start working on the newer files, while she, Tim and Molly stayed in the basement to work on the file boxes that lined the back wall. With the reduced crew, finishing would take at least another week before they could join the other two upstairs, but nobody grumbled. At least, not in Mrs. Latham’s hearing.

It actually took close to two weeks for the basement trio to finish everything up, and found that Jonathan and Cherise had some kind of falling out that didn’t follow them to their lunch break. Or at least, not that Molly or Tim noticed, because Cherise was always buried in a book and Jonathan always prattled on, whether or not anyone joined in. Jonathan had made a disparaging remark about Cherise’s mystery boyfriend, and Cherise got offended, was the long and short of it. 

“Who is he?” Tim asked when they were all leaving for the day, wondering who on earth would date the oblivious bookworm in the first place, and second, why that person would get Jonathan so irritated. Of course, Cherise and Mrs. Latham were already gone, so the others felt free to gossip.

“He’s a prat,” Jonathan said glumly, “and what’s more, he’s a lying prat. Of course, little Miss Romance doesn’t want to think her Prince Charming has any flaws, but he’s obviously a prat!”

Molly couldn’t wrap her head around that. Yes, it was possible to have an unrealistic view of love, especially in light of her constant reading material, but she was a smart girl, and should have better taste, right? “How is he a prat?” she asked judiciously.

Jonathan looked uncomfortable. “He looks right at you, like he can see right through you, and all your secrets, and looks down on you at the same time. The only good thing about him is that he’s filthy rich and they travel in the same circles.”

What? “Travel in the,” Tim interrupted himself, “Cherise isn’t rich!”

“Yeah, she is, she’s just a crazy posh,” Jonathan shook his head. “The few times I hear them talk, they sound all chummy and public school, and isn’t that a kicker? He picks her up, whispers in her ear usually, and she titters like a schoolgirl, and off they go, like Cinderella and her snooty suit.”

“He’s that old?” Tim looked aghast.

Jonathan nodded. “Got to be in his late twenties, at least,” he said. “Usually, I have a thing for gingers, but that one put me off for good. Looking down his nose like the rest of us were pond scum or something!” he said, clearly outraged.

Molly wrinkled her nose, she couldn’t help it. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I think I’d be happy for Cherise, except her ‘soulmate’ seems to be a jerk.”

The other two nodded, then Tim got up. “Reminds me, I’ve got to call my girlfriend,” he said, walking away to make a call on his mobile.

Jonathan sighed when he left. “He would be such a good boyfriend,” he mused.

Molly snorted. “He _is_ a good boyfriend, just not yours,” she noted.

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” the short brunette sighed theatrically, then waved. “See you tomorrow.” He walked out the door, probably off to the bar or someplace he could find a little solace for the time being.

Molly smiled briefly, then pulled out her coin purse. She had enough for a hot cocoa from the vending machine, and she smiled. Something to enjoy before she had to face the brisk autumn weather, and she slung her handbag over her shoulder.

And nearly got run over by a wild-eyed young man in a hoodie, trainers and jeans. “Cherise?” he asked in a nasally Estuary accent, staring at her hard.

Molly snorted. “No,” she said. “I think she’s off with her boyfriend.” If anyone’s attire screamed “suspicious”, it was him, and while she might agree with Jonathan’s assessment, Cherise didn’t need another crazy person after her.

“So she’s real,” he blinked.

Molly nodded at the crazy person. “Yes,” she said firmly, gripping her handbag just as firmly, in case she had to swing it at his head. “She is. And taken.”

He blinked again, then laughed. And laughed hard enough that he had to lean against the wall, tears in his eyes. Oh my gosh, if she ever heard something so lovely, it would be that, even if it was at her expense. “I thought my brother was making her up,” he said, wiping his eyes, “trying to get Mummy off his back or something.” Then his expression narrowed. “Is she intelligent? Modest? Dainty? Well-read? Same social circle? Or any of the hyperbole he’s used at one point or another?”

She had to think, because the laughing young man in front of her was making her smile back in spite of herself. “Um, yes to all of the above,” she said, guessing that blind love ran both ways. Or at least, it appeared to. She really wondered at Cherise’s boyfriend now.

“Oh, God, she’s dull,” he groaned, sliding down against the wall. “I can’t have any fun with that.”

She frowned down at him. “You’re not supposed to, she’s his girlfriend, not yours.”

He gave her a look. “Don’t you tease your siblings when they’ve found their ‘soulmate’?” he asked, and she can almost see the quotation marks.

She shook her head. “Nope,” she said, keeping a straight face, “only with their girlfriends or boyfriends.”

He smirked. “Do you have a picture of said fair maiden?” he raised an eyebrow.

Molly crossed her arms. “I am not helping you harass my coworker,” she said, “merely to needle your brother.”

“Just thought I’d ask first,” he said, and somehow pulled her mobile out of thin air and started going through her contacts.

“Hey, give it back!” Molly cried, angry. Why was she always the last one in the building? And where was a cop when you needed one? And why was it always the tall ones who were the most dastardly? “Give it!” she gritted, then swung her heavy handbag into his midsection.

He gasped and doubled over, then handed it back to her. “Put your coworkers’ names and numbers in, too,” he went on heedlessly, “not everyone has photographic memory to network with.”

Molly shoved it into her handbag and blushed hotly, now that she realized he stole it from her front denim pocket. How did she not feel his fingers down… there? “Why should I?” Molly glared, trying to fight the angry blush on her face. Of course, now she notices how cute he is, even though he’s an insulting jerk and a pickpocket. But because of his insults, she wasn’t about to tell him she wouldn’t have put her coworkers’ numbers in her mobile because it’s just a summer job with short-term friends. 

He shrugged facially. “It would make my life easier if you did.”

This time, she swung at his face, but he dodged and laughed again, running down the hallway on those blasted long legs of us, and she sighed. _Of course the cute ones are crazy,_ she thought, _God, Cherise is in so much trouble._

The next day, she greeted her coworker with, “Just so you know, your boyfriend’s brother came round looking for you. I’ve already let Mrs. Latham and the others know, but I thought you should be aware, too.”

Cherise frowned. “Oh, Mikey’s going to be so annoyed,” she murmured, and started to walk out to notify said boyfriend.

“Clock in first,” Molly hissed when she saw Mrs. Latham hadn’t come back yet, “boyfriend later.”

The other girl blinked, then nodded, and clocked in, then went out the hallway to the ladies’ room to call said boyfriend.

Molly sighed, but she wasn’t sure if it was with relief.

And she didn’t see Cherise’s boyfriend’s brother from that day on. Neither did anyone see Cherise’s boyfriend, but Cherise told them it was mostly his brother’s fault. She did, however, get picked up in a silver Audi promptly after work, which only added to Jonathan’s conspiracy theories.

For a while there, Molly wished Cherise’s boyfriend wasn’t quite so efficient, although she herself should probably be wise not to have a crush on a suspicious-looking and –acting character in the first place. _Stuff ‘soulmates’,_ she thought, _I just want a decent guy!_

 

***

Molly sighed. She loved visiting Sherlock’s parents, she just didn’t like it when Mycroft was there as well. For some reason, it seemed whenever the two brothers were in the same room, they’d be sniping at each other as if they were both five years old. It had only been when Molly was pregnant with Eliza that she’d snapped and told them to behave like grownups, because she wouldn’t be having Sherlock’s children copy his father and uncle. That had sent Mycroft’s eyebrows into the stratosphere, and Sherlock into rebooting mode, trying to process having more than one child. Eventually, they came to a sort of truce at Eliza’s birth, wherein they would pretend to their utmost to be civilized adults, and when they couldn’t, one or both of them would retreat to a separate room. Molly supposed that was as close to a Holmes brothers’ miracle as she could get, but was honestly too relieved to have the birth over and done with.

Today, however, seemed to try everyone’s patience, as if they’d all got up on the wrong side of the bed. Eliza and Bobby were arguing over every little thing, Sherlock was feeling irritable and Molly was feeling a migraine coming on, Sherlock’s parents seemed to be continuing an ongoing argument, and Mycroft was, well, Mycroft at his snippiest. Put them all in the same house and it was like watching sparks go off every two to three minutes. Thankfully, some international thing or other called Mycroft away, Sherlock’s parents had (out of sight and sound from the others) solved their disagreement, and Molly’s migraine was eased by both Sherlock’s massage and his mum’s tea. Only Eliza and Bobby were still snippy with each other, but they were polite enough to behave in front of their grandparents if they had to stay in the same room.

If Molly were single, that kind of day would have her in the tub, bubbles up to her ears, and a glass of wine in her free hand. These days, however, she’s got Sherlock on her side and two brilliant, beautiful children who are just out of sorts for the time being. So she gives her children a bubble bath after a belly-stuffing dinner, and whatever energy they have goes into making weird hairdos with the bubbles and pulling silly faces. “Sherlock, could you tell them a story, please?” she asks, leaning on her husband.

“Do it before she kisses you!” Bobby tried to warn off the kiss, but it was too late. He wrinkled his nose. “Aw, gross…”

His parents giggle and hold each other. “What would you like to hear tonight?” Sherlock asked.

“A story about a bratty brother!” “And a stuck-up sister!”

Their father snorted. “Well, I have one about insufferable siblings. Will that do?” he asked.

“YES!” they chorused.

“Oh, no,” Molly shook her head slightly. When faced with her husband’s raised eyebrow and her children’s eager faces, she closed her eyes. “Bring on the slaughter,” she muttered.

“Exactly,” Sherlock grinned. “Well, this story isn’t about Eliza and Bobby. It’s about Mikey and Willy. They were the best of friends when they were friends, and the worst of enemies when they were enemies. Basically, they were siblings,” he shrugged elaborately. “When they got older, they became enemies more often than not, and would try to interfere in each other’s lives, to the detriment of the other. Oh, the wars I could tell you…”

He smirked when he saw how his children were looking forward to those details. “Buuuuut unfortunately, that’s not what I’ll be talking about tonight.” The groans of deprivation and a quiet sigh of relief met that sentence, and his smirk deepened. “Instead, I‘ll tell you about a little love story that was interrupted, and - no, wait, _two_ love stories that were interrupted.”

Sherlock manfully ignored the heartfelt groan from his youngest and went on. “You see, Mikey was a bit of a prat, to put it mildly. He’d always insist he was right about everything, even if he wasn’t a bit of the time. His brother Willy, however, was a bit of a brat, to put it bluntly. He didn’t care if his mummy and daddy loved him, he would do things his own way, no matter who got hurt.”

“How is this a love story?” Eliza interrupted.

“Because it’s not, it’s two stories for the price of one,” Sherlock corrected her, smiling. “One day, Mikey comes home and says he’s in love with a girl. Public school girl, so they both know her, sort of, smart (because Mikey doesn’t like stupidity), modest (because only he gets to be vain), well-read (again, not stupid), and dainty (because he’s a clumsy oaf).”

“Sherlock,” Molly sighed.

He sighed back, “Okay, so he was still getting used to growing after graduating from uni, which was totally unfair. At least, Willy thought so.” He ignored the eye roll from his beloved wife and continued. “Imbalance of the center of gravity aside, Mikey stated that he and the girl were, to put it in the parlance of the time, ‘going out’. Their parents were overjoyed, even if they had no visual proof of the girl’s existence or that such a relationship existed. Willy, however, wanted to disprove both the girl and the relationship.

“So he asked around his brother’s, erm, acquaintances, and they said they’d seen a girl with Mikey, but they couldn’t quite agree on her appearance. She seemed so quiet that apparently, her secret power was blending into the background and causing amnesia of sorts.

“Willy then looked up the girl’s name, since it seemed a bit unusual. He’d found that yes, she went to such-and-such a school, but they didn’t have personal records. Willy wasn’t a hacker, nor had he found any such friends yet, so he couldn’t get the records that way, and neither was he a skilled actor so that he could blend into an all-girls school, so that was a dead end. However, Willy was rather sneaky, so one night, he held back his gag reflex and listened to his brother’s one-sided conversation with someone presumably (or posing as) his girlfriend. He noted that the girlfriend was a secretary at a police station, and so he waited until everyone else had left or were on a smoke break, because apparently, she was one of the last to leave so that Mikey could pick her up in secret.

“Willy expected to encounter and scare off a mousy little girl who didn’t know who she was dating. Instead, he came across a feisty, loyal, beautiful girl with big brown eyes and a heavy handbag.” He grinned as Molly stared at him. “He was so glad the brown-eyed girl wasn’t Mikey’s girlfriend, or he’d really be cross and try his best to break them up. Like an idiot, however, he neglected to ask the girl’s name or even be polite. Instead, like the coward he was, he ran off, and chose to needle his brother about bringing over his girlfriend. Said girlfriend was produced after a couple of weeks, and just as quickly, she faded from sight. Apparently, even Mikey got bored with her once their parents approved of her, and perhaps the relationship faded with the mystery.

“Unfortunately, that was just one more thing Mikey blamed Willy for ruining, although Willy willingly took the blame for that. He didn’t realize at the time how much a love story interrupted hurts, even if you interrupt it yourself. And Willy didn’t realize he’d interrupted his own love story by not pursuing the brown-eyed girl, although, as luck would have it, he did find her again. Eventually.”

Eliza frowned. “So Mikey doesn’t have a girlfriend, and neither does Willy. Well, good, ‘cause neither of them sound like very nice people.”

“Exactly,” Sherlock nodded. “Lesson of the story, don’t fall for idiots, even if they seem rich, smart or impressive.”

Bobby nodded, and so did his sister. “Did they ever become friends? Mikey and Willy, I mean?” he asked his father.

Sherlock looked at his wife, then away. “Occasionally, yes,” he said quietly. “Good night, Bobby.” He kissed his son’s forehead, then his daughter’s. “Good night, Eliza.”

Molly waited until their bedroom door was closed, and she smacked her husband’s upper arm. “That was _you?_ ” she glared. And then her expression sobered. “And already high as a kite. Except I didn’t know that then.”

His head jerked in a short nod, just as sober as she. “Another reason why I didn’t pursue you then. If Mycroft was unhappy in a relationship sober, we would have been utterly miserable. Even when I was selfish and high, I didn’t want to put you through that, but I couldn’t stay away.”

His wife narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean?”

He held up his hands. “Trust me, it was an accident, but when I saw you again,” his eyes crinkled into what she called his “apology/puppy face”, “I couldn’t help myself. Even when I looked like hell, I still managed to pass as a normal human for a time, but I was too ashamed to let you see me. Addict, remember?”

She put her hands on her hips, rather than wring his skinny little neck. “What did you do?”

“Do you remember the Phantom Thief?”


	7. Chapter 7

1997: University Bookstore Clerk

Another of Molly Hooper’s secret dream jobs was to work at a bookstore. Yes, she knew just because she read a lot didn’t mean that she’d be good at it, just like the fact that just because she liked cinnamon rolls didn’t mean she could bake the bloody things. But there was still a bit of the romantic in her that thought it would be lovely to work in a bookstore, being able to socialize with people in a positive way, and help them find their favorite reading material. And, unlike working in a library, she’d be able to have a snack on the side, or so she hoped. That, and bookstores seem so nice and cosy, almost welcoming. She knows that’s got to do with marketing, but the romantic side tells her it’s the books that make it seem that way, and she doesn’t bother to argue that point.

When Molly went off to university, it’s off in London, which makes her family sad (except for Anna, who’s excited to vicariously live through her older sister for the time being). After much hugs and tears, she’s sitting in the dormitory feeling rather shell-shocked. It wasn’t long before school life takes her mind off homesickness, what with the insane amount of studying (and here she thought her last year of secondary had prepared her for this!), negotiating rules and relationships with her roommate (a blonde Amazon of a woman who was into rowing and partying), and trying to get a part-time job to defray living costs somewhat.

This led to her working at the university bookstore, which, similar to working for Auntie Millie’s at a bakery, seemed like a dream come true. However, it’s only the hours, if not the pay, that’s good part, but then again, a bookstore at a uni should be able to work around their student staff’s class hours. They started her off doing stock work, and she was warned by her boss, a graduate student nearing his thirties, “We do have security cameras, just in case.”

“Oh, good,” she smiled, thinking it was for her safety, and blinked at his confusion. It was only a couple of hours later, while checking off the clipboard, that he meant in case she happened to be doing something illegal. _Of all the nerve!_ She thought indignantly. _Why hire someone when you expect them to rob you or do something criminal?_ She would never understand how some people think, honestly.

Funny enough, Jonathan’s going to the same university, and while he’s enjoying the party life, he’s also got her hooked onto an odd American show called “The X-Files.” She didn’t like it at first, but when the choice was either to sit through his stacks of VHS tapes versus getting kicked out of her room because her roommate decided to have a boy stay over, well, the decision was easy. That, and Agent Dana Scully was a smart, respectable woman doing what would normally be the man’s job in that sort of television show, being the skeptic, holding on to science, and for the first time, Molly thought about becoming some sort of forensic scientist. She’d always had high marks in biology and chemistry, but was never quite sure what to focus on.

“You’d look good as a ginger,” Jonathan remarked one evening. “Perhaps not as sexy as Scully, but you’d be really cute.”

Molly grinned. “You think a _woman_ is sexy?”

He shrugged. “I’m gay, not blind,” he rolled his eyes, “but since you can’t pull off the Mulder look, you might as well go for Scully’s.”

She giggled. “Then who would you be?”

He winked at her. “Why Krycek, the sexy double-agent, of course,” he said. “Give me a leather jacket, and we’re twins.”

They laughed out loud, but the next weekend, she asked him to do a favor, and he cut and dyed her hair to look similar to Dana Scully’s. A couple of boys noticed, and Molly told Jonathan. “I told you you’d look cute,” he said smugly, “but I’d go for Roger. Derek’s a little psycho, between you and me.”

So Molly, with her newfound bravery, bolstered by her new hair color and best friend’s advice, asked Roger out, and he accepted. They went on a few dates, and Molly was in heaven. Jonathan, for his part, found himself a tall economics major named Byron, and was off in his own la-la land.

And so Molly was having a lovely year, in spite of living with a roommate whom she’d sometimes have to roll over onto her side so she wouldn’t choke on her vomit, and did well enough at the bookstore that they moved her out of the stockroom and out to the floor. Of course, that’s when her coworkers tell her about the “Phantom Thief”.

“You’re having me on, aren’t you?” Molly’s smile quirked up nervously.

Her coworker, a busty girl named Gina, shook her head. “Why do you think Simon’s got cameras like he’s filming ‘EastEnders’ here? Whoever it is, they only steal textbooks and women’s magazines. That’s why he looks at us girls, thinking we’re nicking them,” Gina grumbled.

Molly shook her head, “As if a gay man wouldn’t do the same,” she noted.

Gina blinked. “Oh yeah, I’ll bring that up next time. I swear, I think some of those cameras are looking right down my blouse. Good thing you cover up a bit, I like to put on a little show, but only for my boyfriend, you know?”

Molly blushed. “Oh, uh, well, um,” she stammered. While she had gotten used to talking about all sorts of things with both boys and girls, sex wasn’t really one of them.

“You’re cute,” Gina grinned. “Come on, let’s get you familiar with where all that stock you’ve been keeping track of goes.”

Molly soon learned where everything was, how to work a cash register (as opposed to a blue plastic bag), and that sometimes, there were rude people, but you just had to deal with them (while thinking of how all sorts of lovely “X-Files” types of monsters could handle them). And that’s when she met with the Phantom Thief.

At first, she didn’t know it’s the thief. All she knew was there’s some bloke chatting her up in a lovely deep voice from behind a shelf. “You’re serious about becoming a forensic pathologist,” the voice said.

She looked around. There wasn’t anyone in the aisle, but she does see the top of a dark head of hair behind the shelf. “Yes, how do you know?”

“The textbooks you leave behind the counter and read during breaks,” the voice answered. “And I’ve seen you in biology, you aren’t squeamish when it comes to cutting open bodies, not like most girls.”

“That’s because most girls don’t find them fascinating,” Molly replied. “It’s like seeing the insides of a clock, except this machine used to be alive, with parts similar to ours.” She didn’t see it, but her eyes shone as she spoke. “And it’s amazing how many different creatures have so many variations upon the same theme, like different styles of time pieces.”

“But you like humans the best,” the voice noted. “You like the machinery, to borrow your analogy, and you like finding the answers there.”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “Does that bother you?”

“No,” the voice answered. “Should it?”

She quirked a smile at herself. “It bothers most boys,” she said. Even Roger, who she thought would understand since he was going into medicine himself, didn’t quite accept her enthusiasm for wanting to find answers after death rather than solving the puzzle during life.

“I’m not most boys,” the voice said.

Molly giggled, in spite of herself. “No, you sound quite grown-up,” she agreed.

“Hmph,” the voice harrumphed.

Then she frowned. She would certainly have noted someone with that kind of gorgeous voice in her class. “Who are you? What year are you?” she asked, starting to walk around to his side of the shelf.

“The Phantom Thief,” he said, “see you.” And the top of the head disappeared.

She ran around to the other side, but nobody was there. She looked back, then shook her head. “Great,” she muttered.

And because she’d been trained by both Jonathan’s and the “X-Files” paranoia, she slipped into Simon’s office and went through the security camera footage. While she hadn’t seen a camera nearby, she’d hoped there was a hidden one like Gina had claimed. Oddly enough, there was a blind spot where the self-proclaimed Phantom Thief had been. And there was no sign of a tall, dark-haired man, for that matter. Drat.

So she checked through inventory, but found, to her surprise and relief, that there was nothing missing. Mysterious and a liar as well.

A week later, the Phantom Thief stole a can of Red Bull and an entertainment magazine on someone else’s shift, breaking his pattern. A day later, while Molly was restocking the clothing shelf, the deep voice said behind her, “Agent Scully? Really?”

Molly dropped the sweatshirts with a yelp. “Oh my God,” she gasped as she spun around. Nobody there. Of course. She looked at the top of the shelf behind her, but no dark hair. Hm, he’s catching on. “Must you be so dramatic?” she hissed. “And why did you suddenly take a drink and different sort of magazine?”

“Didn’t want people to get the wrong idea,” the voice, rather, the Phantom, said lazily. “Just because someone steals women’s magazines doesn’t make them a woman.”

She sighed, “So it was you.”

“And you didn’t tell them about the blind spot. Interesting.” There’s a pause. “There are other ways to get around the cameras, but I’ll let you guess that for another time.”

“Why do you steal things when it sounds like you’re rich enough to afford them?” she asked honestly.

“Because I can,” he said so insouciantly that she wanted to smack his head with one of her chemistry books. “Why did you cut and dye your hair in a cheap facsimile of a fictional forensic pathologist when you’re actually going to be one?”

She blushed angrily, but narrowed her eyes. “Is that why you stole the magazine? To look up ‘The X-Files’?”

“Maybe,” the voice hedged, and she drew her lips inward. Score one for her, then. “You do realize your boyfriend only likes gingers, and unless you plan on coloring your hair forever, you may not be able to hold his interest.”

“What?” she glared. “He likes me because I’m smart, and we’re in the same field!”

“No,” the Phantom said in a faux-patient tone, “he likes you because he has a weakness for gingers, and has been eyeing other actual gingers for at least the last two weeks. And you and he are in two different fields, he wishes to pursue orthopedics, which is tolerable for a dull person like himself, and you are going into forensic pathology, which is only less dull.”

“And what are you, Mr. Excitement?” Molly said stubbornly. No, she’s not going to admit she’s seen Roger’s interest in her wane in the last week, but then it’s been finals week and everyone’s a bit worn around the edges.

“No, but until you lot come up with a better name, I’m just the Phantom Thief,” he said.

“I’m sure your real name would be adequate,” Molly muttered. But there was no answer back. “Hello?” 

She walked around to the other side of the shelf. “Dammit,” she grumbled when she saw no one. And, as before, there was no sign of him on the security cameras, but this time, she knew there was a camera pointing at her by the clothing area. She didn’t know enough about electronics, but she’s fairly sure that he sabotaged that camera somehow. But he didn’t steal anything during her shift, so she kept quiet. Again.

The next Wednesday, when she caught Roger cheating on her with an actual ginger, however, she didn’t keep quiet. In fact, her tossing his things out her third-story window was loud enough, and she didn’t care that people are laughing, either at her or him, perhaps both. She’s just too mad at him.

But she was also heart-broken, so she begged off of work, and called Jonathan. He decided to have a Mourning Party for her, in which they both wore black, drank as much alcohol as they could stand, and had glasses of water with paracetamol beside for the morning after. That made Molly feel a little better, but not by much, because she still had to go to her morning class with a raging headache.

That night, as she had mostly recovered from the hangover and the heartache, the voice said, “Sorry.”

“Shut up,” she muttered, but it was accompanied by a sudden sniffle. “Dammit.”

“Use this,” and a packet of the store’s pocket tissue flew over the shelf to her side.

She laughed and sobbed, but tore it open and blew into the paper tissue gratefully. “Thanks,” she said. “Not for being a prat about my, well, ex-boyfriend, but for the tissue.”

“You look better with your natural color,” the Phantom said. “It suits you.”

“Nobody thought it suited me before,” Molly sniffled. “People only paid attention when it was a different color.”

“That’s because they’re idiots,” he said firmly. “And why do you keep cutting your hair? It looks better longer.”

She smiled, more than a bit watery. “You really did read through those women’s magazines, didn’t you?”

“Humans are strange enough, women even more so,” the Phantom said, nettled. “Don’t tell anyone I said that.”

“Who am I going to tell?” Molly said. “Like I’m going to say some stranger who occasionally shoplifts thinks women are stranger than people in general. I don’t know you, I don’t know your name, or what you look like. And you sound like a posh actor, which means I’d have a terrible time identifying you in a lineup.”

“A _posh_ actor? Surely, I can do better than that.” As Molly wiped at her eyes, he continued in a high, uncertain, tone, “Please, I-I can do better, just give me another chance!”

She huffed a silent laugh. He honestly sounded like the awkward newbie most of them were when they first started uni rather than his usual smooth and suave self. “Really?”

“Really,” it slid into a more oily, nasally sound, “you shouldn’t be speakin’ ta strange men, Miss.”

“Oh, now that’s creepy,” she said, as he sounded exactly like the after-dark creepers by the Tube.

“He is, trust me,” the Phantom reverted to his usual voice before he switched to a new one, “but this gent, he’s a proper gent, tho’ he wouldn’t say so.” It’s a bit more Estuary, with forced emphasis on the “h” sound, and a bit more chest to it. “I’ve nicked a few things off him, but he’s too clean and hard-working. One of these days he’ll be a proper detective.”

“You stole from the _police?_ ” she squeaked.

“Calm down, he gets them replaced for free, part of his job,” he answered carelessly.

“Oh my God,” Molly sighed, leaned against her shelf, and her mouth quirked up into a sudden smile. “You know what, Mr. Phantom? I think, under different circumstances, we could be friends.”

“We could?” he sounded surprised. “Why?”

She had to think about it for a moment. “Because we can talk to each other, and it’s good,” she fumbled, “I mean, aside from the stealing and you being all mysterious, you seem like a really decent fellow. And you’re no odder than my other friend here, and he’s a gay conspiracy theorist.”

The Phantom snorted in an un-mysterious way. “Is there such a thing? A gay conspiracy theorist?”

“Gay people can be all sorts of things, like straight people,” Molly shrugged.

“I know that,” and she almost heard his eyeballs rolling from behind his shelf, “but it sounded like far too many descriptors. Was he the one who suggested dyeing your hair?” She nodded. “Fire him, find a better fashion consultant.”

She giggled. “He’s my friend, I can’t fire him,” she retorted. “Unless you’re willing to work for free.”

“Fine with me,” the Phantom said, “I do it anyway.”

“Stealing doesn’t count,” Molly said severely.

“Yes, it does.”

For some reason, she’s reminded of a conversation she’s had before, but she doesn’t know where. Or when. Or with whom, for that matter. Hm, maybe it was on TV… wait a minute, detour! Back to the topic at hand! “Look, what if I promise not to cut or dye my hair, and you promise not to steal anything from the bookstore?” she said.

“How will I know you’ll keep your end of the bargain?” he said suspiciously.

She thought it was funny, his tone, coming from him. “Apparently, you’ve been spying on me,” she said, “you’ll know. You’ve got a good eye. And so have I, so if you break your side, I can do whatever I want with my hair.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” the Phantom said.

“Is that a promise?” she said.

“Fine,” he muttered, “it’s a promise.”

And for the next year, they both kept their promises, her hair grew out and the roots soon outgrew the dyed parts, while he apparently didn’t steal anything from the bookstore. Molly regretted not broadening the limits to stealing from elsewhere, since apparently he’d stolen (and returned, much to her relief) the bust of Darwin from the Science Hall, as well as the watches from some rather unsavory schoolmates.

She put it out of her mind when her father gets sick, however. She quit her job, only going to classes and the hospital. She didn’t realize that’s also when the thief disappeared, but by the time she quit university, she’s lost contact with anyone socially. All that mattered was her family, and she moved back home to take care of them as best she can, in spite of her mother’s protests. After all, she’s smart, she could always go back to uni. But she’s only got one father, and that precious time with him wasn’t going to last forever.

***

That evening, Eliza is diligently drawing and coloring a family picture for her homework assignment. As she fills in her grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins, along with her own parents and little brother, she asked, “What happened to Granddad Bobby?”

Molly smiled. “Oh, you remember who Bobby was named after, clever girl.”

The curly-haired girl nodded. “Nana Lily always smiles whenever we call him, so I asked her why. It wasn’t ‘cause she plays favorites.”

Molly nodded back, although she’s fairly sure Eliza was still suspicious about the latter. “Of course she doesn’t. She spoils all her grandkids equally, although I wish she’d do it a bit more healthier.” Molly’s mum was legendary among her grandchildren (as well as assorted family friends) for her pastries. When her daughter pouted, Molly giggled. “Sorry, you wanted to know about Granddad Bobby. Well--”

Her explanation is interrupted by the very namesake, who’d finally come out of the bath after scrubbing practically everywhere twice. His father, likewise, had to scrub everywhere twice, but that was because he’d led them both into a vigorous investigation of what kind of insects and worms they had in the backyard that would be suitable for fishing with Uncle John. “Were you starting a story without us?” Bobby asked.

“Mm? No, I was just telling Eliza about your granddad, the one you’re named after,” Molly said.

“That’s a story,” Sherlock declared, making Molly roll her eyes. Thankfully, he’d stored the bugs and worms in separate jars, then packed him in a cooler with a very large label taped to it reading “FISH FOOD”. Of course, the packing and labeling only came after Molly had ordered it in no small terms. “Don’t worry, while you tell the story, I’ll make dinner. How does sauteed worms sound?”

“Ew, Daddy” and “Cool!” sounded from the living room. Molly simply gave him a dirty look, and he subsided.

“Very well, we’ll just have boring old pasta with boring marinara sauce and boring grated cheese,” he rolled his eyes. But then he smirked and winked at his wife, who only shook her head. Trust him to finish what she’d started, but at least she knew he could actually cook. And, contrary to his whinging, he could make it taste absolutely delicious.

“All right, the story of Granddad Bobby,” Molly settled between her children. “Once upon a time, there was a good, strong man with thick black hair named Robert who used to play rugby. He was so talented at it that it became his job, and everyone in his neighborhood would call him Number Seven, because that was his number on the team. Some even called him Lucky Seven, because that’s generally held to be a lucky number, and he was so friendly and cheerful that everyone wanted to be his friend, even those on the opposing teams. Everyone loved him and, according to your Nan, he was quite popular with the girls, too.”

“Ew,” Bobby groaned. “That’s disgusting.”

Molly snorted. “Well, he was. Anyways, one day, during practice, Number Seven’s luck ran out because he hurt his leg. It was so bad that they took him to the doctor. The doctor said he could fix it, but he could never play rugby again, because if Number Seven hurt his leg again in that same place, it would stay broken.”

“So he really stopped playing rugby?” Eliza frowned. “Why didn’t he get a better doctor who could fix him forever?”

“Because even the best doctor would have told him the same,” Molly said gently. “He was sad, because it was a common injury, but he thought, young as he was then, that he would never get seriously hurt. The doctor’s words, however, had him sit down for a good long think, literally. So he made his choice: he stopped being Number Seven and became regular Robert Hooper, because he wanted a bright future without worrying about living with a hurt leg.” Then she smiled a little. “And then he proposed to his long-time girlfriend, a blonde baker named Lily, and together, they built a good business and raised three children, that would be your Uncle Brian, myself, and your Aunt Anna. And in spite of never playing rugby for a job again, Robert taught his son Brian how to play rugby safely and well, well enough that it paid his way to uni, but you don’t have to worry about that yet,” she smiled and hugged her children. “And Robert was still a strong man and a good man, with a good heart. He was so proud of his children, and I’m sure he’s proud of his grandchildren as well,” and she kissed the tops of Eliza and Bobby’s heads.

“What happened to him?” Eliza asked again.

Molly forced herself to look into her daughter’s eyes, rather than away like she wanted to. “He got really sick,” she said, “but Robert didn’t think anything of it, and didn’t see the doctor until he got really, really bad. By that time, the doctors discovered it was cancer, and that it had spread throughout his body. Even though he was in pain a lot of times, he tried to keep us smiling, can you imagine?” she asked, her mouth automatically twitching upwards in spite of herself. “He was dying, and he knew it, we all knew it, but he would tease your Aunt Anna about probably growing taller than your Uncle Brian, since she was already taller than me. He would encourage your Uncle Brian to bring over a nice girl, which would make your uncle blush like anything. He would wink at your Nana Lily like your father winks at me,” and now her smile is deeper. “He even laughed at me trying to dye my hair, saying I was too young for that sort of thing.” She shook her head. “I was in uni at the time, but he kept reminding me to have fun, because he already knew I was a good student.” She shook her head again. “I think that was his last choice, out of all the choices that he made. He chose to try to make his loved ones happy, he chose to love, even when he was dying.”

She inhaled, and to her surprise, it was a sniffle. She grabbed a tissue hurriedly to wipe up, and was touched when Eliza pulled her in for a hug, and Bobby leaned against them both. “Thank you,” she said, when she could trust herself not to choke. “Your granddad passed on a Tuesday. It was a lovely, sunny day, I think he was happy to see it was sunny and clear. He was holding on to your Nana’s hand, but his eyes were on the window. And then, he was gone, and suddenly, the machines were beeping so loudly, as opposed to how quietly he left, it shocked us all.

“And that’s the story of your Granddad Bobby. But that’s only one story. If you ask your Nana Lily, I’m sure she’s got more, and happier ones, beside.”

Sherlock rapped on the wall. “Time for dinner,” he said, but it wasn’t as blunt as his usual delivery. Molly and Bobby got up and went to the dining table, but Eliza grabbed a few more crayons and started drawing hastily. “What are you drawing?” he asked.

“Granddad Bobby,” she said, her concentration making her expression as fierce as her father’s and soon, a man-shaped figure with thick dark hair, a big smile, a halo, and wings floated above the families in her family picture. Then she jumped up and stuck her hand in her father’s, and they joined the other two for dinner.


	8. Chapter 8

2002: Medical Resident

When Molly Hooper returned to uni a year after her father’s death, she switched her specialization from forensic to oncology. When her father was still alive, he encouraged her to follow her original plan because it would make her happy. “You know what they say,” her father said in his voice roughened by the tube in his trachea, “if you do what you love, you won’t work a day in your life. Do what you love, Molly, no matter what other people think.”

“I will,” she said, but at that point, Molly couldn’t think see past her father’s impending death. What used to bring her joy, working on the dead, didn’t seem as joyful when it affected her family. Already she felt like she was doing things automatically, or rather, like an automaton. It was hard to feel anything other than grief and sorrow, so she tried not to feel anything at all. Molly being Molly, however, that didn’t work out, and the entire Hooper clan grieved heavily when Robert Hooper passed away on an oddly sunny Tuesday.

Molly was so torn up at his loss that she wanted to do something that would spare someone else her hell. So, to accommodate her new career path, she had to go to even more classes than before, as well as retake a few so that she didn’t feel pathetic and slow in comparison to the younger students. What made her feel better was that there were a couple of other students around her age, but the majority? Practically preteens! At least, she felt that way, even though most of them were also unfairly taller than she was. (While she and Jonathan had sporadically kept in contact, he’d called this the “Anna Effect”, because his younger sisters were shorter than himself. Completely unfair, of course.)

Fortunately, she’s still a fast learner, very driven and very smart, so she’s into her residency after two and half years. Unfortunately, she and her fellow residents’ first rotation was onto the A&E. For the most part, they’re under direct supervision, so Molly didn’t feel too lost when talking with a living person, although her first efforts at small talk and appearing to be medically competent at the same time were… awkward, to put it kindly. Occasionally, they took care of small cases, like determining whether a child had a sprain or a broken bone, or attaching an IV to a patient (Molly would rather have them be unconscious, but they can’t all have what they want), but for the most part, there were lulls of mind-numbing boredom interspersed with periods of literally having to diagnose on your feet, ascertaining what the real problem is (because people have a strange tendency to lie even when they’re bleeding out, or be unhelpfully unconscious in the first place), and determining the best course of treatment. The regular staff have had the advantage of a degree and years of experience, while Molly and her classmates only have their textbook knowledge.

Well, Molly’s got a bit of an advantage over her classmates, even if she doesn’t see it that way. She’s comfortable injecting patients, after asking the nurses how to do the same for her father when they took him home. And she’s not afraid to accidentally hurt them to help them (see: injections). She’s the one who would hold on to the patient’s hand when the lead doctor barked out questions and orders, and she’s the one who tried her best to calm them down before an operation.

One of the doctors asked if she’d think about becoming an anesthesiologist, since there’s a shortage of proficient ones in this particular A&E, but Molly refused. She knew she could, it’s just that that’s not what she was going for, and from what she’s seen, it would be more like learning to dance in a group, her movements and judgments timed with the nurses and doctors, along with the stats from both the patient’s clipboard and what they saw on the monitor. And while she has steady hands and a decent bedside manner, she knew her coordination wasn’t up to par when it comes to actual operating.

Because of her age and experience, the rest of her classmates took to treating Molly like an older sister, which she found both amusing in her more lucid hours and mildly irritating when she’s only running on less than three hours of sleep. She found, like most residents, that she would do anything to get more sleep, whether it was taking certain routes on the Tube so she can get at least fifteen more minutes napping, or jockeying for a spot in the lone bedroom with two bunkbeds. Yes, only two, and Molly wondered how the surgery’s managed to stay in business so long without the hospital staff committing homicide. She knew some of the actual staff lived in the nearby apartments, but still, it was quite nice to have a bed closer by, like having a dorm room. A dorm room shared by ten ambitious students running on less than five hours at a stretch on a good day, and less than that on average. Because of that, Molly was once again grateful that they’re being supervised, because it’s more than likely that sleep deprivation, along with the overweening pride that seems to be part and parcel of being a med student, might accidentally harm or kill a patient.

She’s the only one who thinks that, however, and again, it reminded her that her personal experience isn’t common. Not everyone who went into medicine does so for the exact same reasons. She was surprised to find that many of them are related to doctors, although one of them was related to a custodian who works at St. Bart’s, and yet another had lived in council housing. But she knew people like the last are few and far between. She also knew it’s unusual to be sent to the A&E first off, when they usually sent residents off to office jobs first. She supposed she was part of a graduate class that they planned on culling even further, since the other two-thirds of her class are located in similar A&Es.

Of course, it’s only right when she felt like she’s finally getting the hang of things, that’s when it all went pear-shaped. She really ought to know better than to think she’s got a handle when it’s only the first year of her residency, and she’s got at least four more years to go. Dr. Martinelli, her supervisor, grabbed Molly and a large, freckle-faced lad, Jones, to help with a wild drug addict just come in. Apparently, the John Doe was high off something that Martinelli guessed was a cocktail of uppers of some sort, but couldn’t get the Doe to stay still long enough for a blood test.

“Jones, get his legs strapped! Hooper, grab his right arm, I’ll get his left!” the doctor barked, and Molly and Jones did their jobs.

The John Doe, a young man approximately in his twenties, tall, gaunt, with badly-shaved scalp and badly-stained clothes, screamed and tried to thrash about, but his legs were strapped down to the gurney, and Martinelli had got hold of his left arm. Molly, not wanting to be the weak link, grabbed the right arm and pulled it to her chest, then held it in place with her left leg while she wrapped the straps around his arm. To their surprise, the John Doe stared up at her and smiled a wide, hazy smile. “Angel,” he said, his voice as wrecked as his thin face, “I knew you’d come back.”

“You know him?” Martinelli asked.

Molly was shocked. “N-no,” she stammered, even as the Doe’s long fingers sought and found hers. “What, what are you doing?”

The John Doe kept smiling at her, oddly peaceful as opposed to his wild, self-harming behavior when he first woke up. “You kept your promise. So beautiful,” the cracked lips said. Molly stared at the drugged stranger, not seeing a familiar face in the ravaged features of the pale man. His pale irises almost hidden by the huge pupils, the whites irritated so that he looked teary-eyed, the bags under his eyes a stark contrast to his pale, flaky skin scarred by lesions, his bald head shaved by either himself or a fellow addict, since there were odd patches of dark hair here and there.

“Where are you from?” Martinelli barked.

The drug addict wasn’t listening to him, but kept staring up at Molly like she was his savior or something. Jones snickered, but the addict paid him no attention, either. Molly, uncomfortable but unable to free her hand, repeated the question, “Where are you from?”

“Vauxhall Arches,” the Doe answered. “Your hair is lovely.”

“Um, thank you?” she squeaked.

The doctor saw that the druggie was responding to Molly positively, so he told her, “Ask what he shot up with.”

“Um, what kind of drugs did you take?” she asked nervously. This was the first time in a long time that she was dealing with a patient like this, but this time she was the one whose nerves needed to be soothed.

“Heroin, somewhere,” he answered, “and something else. A lot of something else.” Then he looked at the doctor, who was trying to find a vein that wasn’t collapsed. “Try the veins in my thighs. I haven’t gone there yet.”

Martinelli gave him a sharp look, but pushed up the loose jogging trousers and found perfectly acceptable veins there. As he drew the man’s blood, he asked, “How old are you?”

“Twenty-two,” the addict looked back at Molly. “No, you’re twenty-three.”

Molly pulled back in shock, but her hand was still tightly held by the madman. Addict. Whichever. “How do you know that?” she asked, not caring that her voice was shaky.

“You were nineteen,” he said, his eyes blinking slowly.

So he knew her from her first stint in uni. That could be anybody, really, but she’s fairly certain that she would recognize him since he’s talking so familiarly to her. “I’m afraid I don’t know your name.”

“You never did,” he shook his head, then winced. “Am I dead, Angel? Is that why you’re here?”

“What? No, you’re not going to die,” Molly quickly reassured him out of habit.

“Oh,” he sighed, then closed his eyes. And then they flew open again with startling swiftness. “But you’re supposed to be a forenzzz… with dead people. You sure I’m not dead?”

He definitely knew her from uni before. “I’m sure,” she said, smiling without realizing it. “I’m going to be an oncologist now, not a forensic pathologist.”

“But you like dead things. They make you happy. Be happy,” he said, then yawned hugely. “I’m so tired. Why am I tired? I just woke up. I don’t sleep,” and he yawned again.

“Heroin,” Molly answered by rote, as her mind was spinning, “even when cut with cheaper ingredients, will still have the same alternately wakeful and drowsy states. And it appears you haven’t slept for a very long time.”

“G’night, Angel,” he muttered. His eyes rolled back, and it wasn’t long before his breathing evened out.

“Shut _up,_ ” Molly hissed at Jones, who resumed his snickering. She’d swat the idiot, but he was too far away, and she was still imprisoned by the John Doe.

Even when they found the John Doe was actually sleeping, it still took a while to work his fingers off Molly’s hand. And thanks to Jones, the rest of the class called her “Angel”. While she was thankful that John Doe’s relatives somehow managed to identify him and take him to rehab, Molly was stuck with an unwelcome nickname and the beginnings of doubt about her new direction in medicine. Because even though John Doe was drugged out of his mind, she _was_ happy with dead things, and while there was a sense of satisfaction with what she was currently doing, she knew she wouldn’t be happy if she kept at it.

***

“Once upon a time,” Sherlock said, his deep voice had a hushed, still quality to it tonight, as if telling a secret, “there was a young prince who was deeply unhappy. He thought that if he held all the knowledge of the world, that he would be happy, just like his older brother. But, to his dismay, he wasn’t. Instead, he went out and sought various things to dull the pain of despair with the world. He tried money, he tried fighting, he tried alcohol, but nothing worked. Then he heard of a magic flower that was said to dull even the worst pain in the world. He found it was costly, but money was no matter to him. He heard that it would ruin his good looks, but his vanity was no matter in comparison to his despair. He heard that it was poison, that it could kill him, but death seemed like no matter to him, because he was young and thought he could never die. All he wanted was the painful unhappiness to go away.

“And, as the initial promise was, the magic flower did make the pain go away, far, far away. It was the most beautiful red flower, and when he inhaled its scent, it dulled everything, like putting a blanket on the noise and pain of the world, so that the young prince felt as if he were walking in a dream. He tried to believe people who sold the magic flower when they said they were his friends, even though they both knew the sellers were liars. But the young prince didn’t care. All he wanted was the magic flower. It didn’t make him happy, but it allowed the pain to go away.

“At least, for a time, it did. Then the magic flower’s scent wore off, and he needed another magic flower, and another, and another. Sometimes, the magic flower sellers sold him flowers that were only partly magic, so it did stranger things to him, or hurt him. He didn’t care. His family was sad that he was hurting himself with the magic flower, but he didn’t care about them, either. Soon, it wasn’t even about dulling the pain, it was only about the magic flower. He was kicked out of his home and his allowance cut off, because his family thought that maybe he’d wake up and stop buying and using the magic flower. Instead, the former prince did terrible things like stealing in order to get money to buy more magic flowers.

“One day, the thing that his family feared the most happened - the former prince smelled a bad flower that was only partly magic, and he appeared to be dead. But nobody knew that, among others who had died smelling the bad magic flower, this man used to be a prince, and he was about to be sent to a pauper’s grave when a wise old man stopped and checked for a heartbeat. So the wise old man, who was more used to dealing with the dead than with the living, did his level best to revive the mostly-dead young man, and was rewarded with a snore, to his relief.

“The former prince was then sent to a hospital, where he saw a beautiful young woman with long brown hair. He thought he was in heaven to see such a lovely creature bending over him, and called her ‘Angel’. But she was simply a doctor trying to do her job and save his life, never mind the deliriums of the former prince. But he was in love, even though he was still filled with the poisons of the bad magic flower, and tried to hold on to the Angel. The poison of the bad flower, however, sent him into a deep sleep, almost as deep as the one where people thought he was dead, but not quite.

“When he woke up, the former prince found he was in a cold, clean place, but his body was feeling as horrible as his mind. His older brother told him what had happened, well, everything except the young doctor. And he promised to take care of his younger brother, even if his younger brother hated him forever and ever, because he would regret never trying to save him. His younger brother did resent him, even though he made up with his parents and became a prince again, but he didn’t really hate him. He didn’t think he could, because his older brother reminded him of the game they played as children, teaching him how to protect his mind and heart so that he would never need the magic flower again.

“Hm. I’ll need to rework it,” Sherlock muttered. “Because the young prince was stupid enough not to recognize his ‘Angel’ when she reappeared years later. But I’ll have to tell them sooner or later, and better they hear it from me than someone else.”

“That was _you?”_ Molly sat up and stared at him. Her lower lip trembled, and she slapped his face.

Sherlock, stunned, held his reddened face. “What was that for?” he stared at her.

“You almost _died_ before you saw me again!” she cried. “You almost died and we almost never happened!” Then she kissed him hard, so much so he thought his lips would fall off. “You. Almost. _Died_ ,” she said, punctuating each word with a punch to his bicep. “You. _IDIOT!_ ”

Normally, he would’ve smiled eliciting a reaction like that, but right now, he’s holding his wife, who is only now realizing how close they came to losing each other permanently. He’s rocking her as he holds her, murmuring, “I’m here now, we’re here now, shhhh, we’re here now…”

She pulled away from him. “How are you not mad about that?” Molly stared at him, her large brown eyes filling with tears.

But his pale eyes are just as teary. “I was,” he said quietly, “and mortified, and regretful, and so very, very grateful that I finally got another chance after nearly dying again. If I were to thank Mary for anything, it was to shock me into remembering _everything_. For remembering you, for remembering that I missed you and loved you even when you forgot me. And thankful that you loved me in spite of me forgetting you this time and being a complete and utter arse when you’d finally achieved your dream job. We were given so many chances to get it right, I didn’t want to waste this last chance.”

She was quiet for a while, long enough that he was worried. Then she said, “So that was it. I honestly thought you’d lost your mind when you started, well, courting me.”

He frowned. “That seemed to be a common consensus. Why is that, when I start exhibiting behaviors common to man, _that’s_ when people think I’m mad?” She raised an eyebrow at him. “Fine,” he huffed, “just know I had the breakdown first when I realized how many chances we were given.”

She smiled, a little wobbly. “I’m glad you remembered,” she said, “even if it got me an embarrassing nickname when I was on rotation.”

“It’s not embarrassing, it’s true,” he said, “you are an angel. _My_ angel,” he said as he hugged her possessively, as if to underline the fact.

Molly’s smile steadied. “Silly man,” she said, hugging him back, “my silly man.” Then she kissed him on his cheek.

“You missed,” he pouted, and kissed her on the lips.

And then he kissed her elsewhere, and so did she, and they spent the rest of the night pleasantly reaffirming their present and permanent chance to be together.


	9. Chapter 9

2006: University Lab Assistant

Molly Hooper thought she would leisurely ponder on what her next steps would be regarding her academic, and eventually career, future would be over the summer half term break. Instead, she found herself attending Jonathan’s funeral at the beginning of said break, and then tasked with the tail-end of the planning and execution of her younger sister’s wedding that was slated to go on at the end of it. Apparently, while she was nose-deep in her oncology studies, Jonathan was finishing up to become a barrister and had unofficially adopted Anna as a new younger sister. She vaguely remembered Anna’s boyfriend Jeremy, and it seemed that he’d been upgraded to fiancé without her realizing, and as a result, Anna had asked Jonathan to be her Man of Honor/Wedding Planner. His sudden, shocking death from a burst appendix had jolted Anna’s wedding plans.

Even though most of the things were checked off, such as venue, seating, and dress, there were some things that were on Jonathan’s laptop, and since his death was so sudden, nobody knew the password to unlock it. The fact that some vendors accepted sudden death of the planner was a relief; the fact that others didn’t only served to stress out the affianced couple considerably. Also, one of the couple’s mutual friends was going through a romantic meltdown of their own, and Anna was trying her best to help while not getting singed in the crossfire (she was, in spite of herself). Molly found herself making more cups of tea than her mother did while her Da was in the hospital, and the closer they got to the wedding date, the more problems they seemed to come across.

Unfortunately, while everything else had miraculously come together (or rather, pulled together by the skin of their teeth), by the wedding day the dressmaker had faffed off, slapping together a dress that looked lovely on the hangar as a last-minute delivery, but was at least three sizes too large on even the tall Hooper girl. Thankfully, the venue, who had apparently had similar problems previously, had a seamstress onsite to help Mrs. Hooper literally stitch the bride in, and the other vendors, like the photographer, doubled as entertainment while the guests were waiting.

Because of the last-minute sewing job, the ceremony was delayed by about forty-five minutes, and by the time the wedding party made it to the site, the cloudy skies had started a light sprinkle. By the time the bride made it to the groom’s side, however, it was a veritable downpour that lasted throughout the ceremony. The MC was thoughtful enough to have brought an umbrella, but everyone, including the wedding party, was already soaked. There was a brief respite in the rain, during which time the guests escaped to the reception site. The wedding party stayed for photos, then got changed into mercifully drier clothes.

Some of the guests grumbled at the delays and the weather, but Anna’s Great-Aunt Jane on her mother’s side claimed the afternoon deluge was a blessing from heaven. “After all,” the thin old woman declared, “if you can’t handle a bit of British blessing, there’s no hope for your marriage, is there?” The newlyweds laughed harder than expected, because Great-Aunt Jane didn’t know the half of it.

After all that, Molly thought that she, like Anna, should seize her chance for happiness and re-enter the forensic pathology line. She realized it was her guilt that changed her mind, but with this second, sudden death, as well as her sister’s wedding, she knew that she needed to go after her dreams, and damn whoever or whatever would pressure her to do otherwise. Besides, wasn’t she similarly drenched in those “showers of blessing”?

So Molly Hooper went back to uni for the third time to finish off the degree from the first time around. Her classmates from the A&E wished their “Angel” well, although Molly made sure none of her new classmates heard a peep about that. Considering that she was more than a bit older than they were by this time, she felt much better that she was dealing with dead people. At least, the dead didn’t make her feel so old and silly. And yes, she did dry heave a few times at first when she had to deal with decomposed and bloated corpses, but she got used to the smell eventually and didn’t have to rely on camphor (it was one of the few times being a girl let her get away with relying on the “weak person’s” crutch). She also found that she’d still have to build up her upper arm strength, and got into the habit of eating more meat and doing pushups and lifting milk jugs at the store.

She also got a position as a Latin professor’s assistant near the end of her first year back, so she found herself marking papers and exams that she herself barely understood. Oh yes, she had to learn some Latin for her degree, but she was thankful that the professor provided her with a key for each assignment and exam. As a result, her own understanding of medical terms improved, and she was kept on for the rest of her time there. While she never took any Latin courses, she found herself learning the basics in spite of herself, and Professor Rachel Goodwin was a friendly sort.

In fact, it was Professor Goodwin’s partner Sarah who suggested that Molly look for a position as a lab assistant, since that could only enhance the girl’s experience and future. The professor shared this with Molly, and added, “I would love to keep you on for the rest of your time here, but I think Sarah’s right. You need to be working at the pathology department, and as a woman, you need all the experience you can get when you’re going into a male-dominated profession.”

Molly honestly hadn’t thought of it that way, but she could see their point. So she put in for the position at the pathology lab, as per her current boss’ orders, and to her surprise, found she was accepted for the next semester. With a heavy heart, she tendered her resignation to Professor Goodwin, who accepted it graciously. “I think this is the first time my boss has asked me to leave a job,” Molly remarked.

“And I hope it’s the last,” Professor Goodwin smiled. “Tell Professor McDonald that he’s lucky to be having you.”

Molly grinned, “Isn’t it the other way around?” She laughed when the Latin professor shook her head.

So at 27, Molly Hooper was a pathology lab assistant, and found that, unlike her experience at the A&E, everything clicked. Not just the textbook work, but just, well, _everything._ She liked seeing the order come out of chaos, answers come out of personal effects and mute corpses, and that there were other people whose sense of humor was close to her own. And she found that she didn’t have to fake her enthusiasm for her job to her family, unlike her time at the A &E. Yes, she liked having a job she didn’t have to lie about, even though she occasionally forgot it made other people uncomfortable. Oh well, Molly was finally happy at a job again, and that made things a bit better.

Occasionally, there would be students from other universities and hospitals that would come to Molly’s lab, and there were times when Molly’s small class would visit those same unis and hospitals. There would also be times when there would be a fresh body, rather than one donated to science long ago, and those times would be accompanied by members of the police force, which made Molly nervous. But her professors said that, too, was part of the learning experience, because part of her future job would entail helping the police in their search for answers.

She also learned there were all sorts of detectives. There were the police, and they had all sorts of ranks and whatnot, and after fumbling about as to how to address them (some were more touchy about rank than others), Professor McDonald kindly advised, “You can look the ranks up online, but I’d suggest a simple ‘Sir’ or ‘Ma’am’ if you don’t know their names. They’ll be quick to fill you in, especially the rude ones,” he winked.

There were also private detectives, and private forensic agencies. They usually brought their business cards, which made addressing them so much easier, as well as fact-checking. Professor McDonald had a habit of running background checks on everyone who came to the lab, because apparently, bodies and body parts had a way of wandering off and never returning if one didn’t.

It wasn’t long before she noticed there was one particular branch (or was it division?) of the Metropolitan Police that were constant visitors and donators of fresh bodies. This bunch liked to send young officers in with the body bags, part of a hazing ritual, Molly suspected. She also suspected her professor was in on this ritual, too, as he had a habit of unzipping the bag with a stethoscope (“In case it’s not actually dead”) and even checking for a pulse. “It’s a good habit to develop,” the grey-haired man said when the last shaky recruits departed, the remains of their stomach contents washed down the basin. “Especially with the fresh ones. I’ve actually had two bodies who were close to lifeless, but they had a pulse, and while one didn’t make it past a coma, I believe the other’s out and about somewhere.”

“Really?” Molly’s eyes were wide. “What happened?”

He nodded. “Happened about four years ago. You would’ve been about nine or ten then,” and she snorted, “but it was a near thing. The police were doing their random bit of homeless sweeps, when they came across a body of an unidentified addict, a John Doe. For all intents and purposes, they thought he was dead, so they brought him here. It was after hours, so it was just me and my stethoscope. Now, you and I know that fresh bodies have all sorts of gases trapped inside to make the appearance of breathing, or even passing gas,” and Molly giggled, as she’s seen him expel the flatulence from a corpse to frighten more than one young recruit, “but you can’t fake a pulse. So I see the lungs lift and fall a bit, and I take its pulse, just in case. And damned if there was one, faint, very faint, but since it was just me and the dead, I could hear it. So I call 999, and proceed to resuscitate a man for the first time in, oh, over thirty years. Scrawny thing only coughed, rolls his eyes, and went back to sleep with a snore. A snore! That’s all the thanks I get!” He shammed at being mad, but it was clear from the way his chest puffed out that he was proud that he had one on the cops.

“What happened then?” Molly asked.

“Well, curious thing that I was, I called the hospital he was sent to,” he smiled. “Turns out, the John Doe secretly came from some money, because some men in suits picked him up not long after he was admitted, and papers were processed for some posh rehab. And it’s one of those places where they pride themselves on having an excellent success rate, whether it’s to stay there forever, or being able to send them back out into the wild world without relapsing.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “They never did get a name, but I suspect it’s because we’d find it in the tabloids if we did.”

“Oh my goodness,” she breathed. “Strange, isn’t it, that money or fame doesn’t guarantee you a good life?”

The grey-haired man gave her a level look. “Neither does poverty,” he said, “but doing what you love, well, that’s a good start.”

She loved it when he got philosophical. It was almost like hearing her father again, wise, but irreverent, too. “If that’s a start, then what’s the rest?” she asked, half-expecting a silly answer.

“Finding someone you love to do it with,” he said, his small smile both fond and sad. She’d heard a bit about his wife who had passed away over twenty years ago, but only after she’d shared about her father’s death and why she’d returned to pathology so late. “Okay, enough about almost-dead bodies. We’re here to deal with the really dead ones. So. Ms. Hooper. Would you like to see a body that’s had almost all of its organs donated?”

She nodded eagerly, and followed him to one of the cold chambers. This was going to be a good day, she could tell. 

***

The last few nights, Sherlock has been reading “Ballet Shoes” to Eliza and Bobby. That’s because previously, Molly read “Treasure Island” to their children, as an experiment, of course. Sherlock wondered if children would be affected by the gender reading the book, in spite of the gender the book was geared to. While most social experiments made Molly wary, she thought it was acceptable. That, and she honestly thought it would be funny hearing Sherlock’s deep voice doing the very young and feminine voices of the three Fossil sisters, Pauline, Petrova and Posy. She’s also fairly sure that Sherlock thought it would be funny hearing her high-pitched voice attempt to do Long John Silver and the rest of the exceedingly-male cast (there is Jim’s mother, but she’s only there for a short bit).

She found she had to have honey in her tea to keep going, and that Sherlock couldn’t help jumping in, especially for the sound effects. She swore to herself that the next time they went to the Holmes grandparents, she was going to have Mr. Holmes read a pirate story aloud, since it was his fault that Sherlock wanted to be a pirate in the first place. At least, that’s what Sherlock said. And hearing Sherlock pulling off a bratty Pauline frighteningly well, she’s inclined to underline the “Grandfather reading session” in her mental calendar. She also thinks it’s funny that he’s making Posy sound like Molly, and Petrova sound like Mary, and both doctors sounding like John. She isn’t surprised to hear that unpleasant characters sound like Mycroft or Anderson, and it warms her heart that both children accepted both Molly reading a pirate story and their father reading a ballet story. Then again, when they make up their own fairy tales, Molly’s tend to fall on the prosaic side, while Sherlock’s sound more like actual fairy tales themselves.

Tonight, however, Bobby tells his parents that he wants to tell a fairy tale, and they nod, sitting at the side table between the children’s beds. Their son sits up straight in his bed, looking both solemn and excited in his dark green jim jams. “Once upon a time,” he starts off deliberately, “there was a boy called Bobby the Brave.” Ignoring his older sister’s snort, he continued, “One day, he heard that there was a contest to travel the farthest in the world. Whoever went the farthest and came back with proof, they were the winner, and they’d get an amaaaazing reward. So Bobby decided he was gonna go farther than anyone else, even though he was the youngest and littlest. But you know what? He _did_ go the farthest! He went aaaaaaaaall the way to Australia,” and his eyes lit up as if it were the furthest galaxy, “and he came bouncing on the back of a bouncing kangaroo! And he got a big reward! But he shared it, ‘cause he already had so much adventures goin’ aaaaaaaall the way to Australia, and those were cool, and he had a kangaroo, and it was _really_ cool! The end.”

Molly and Sherlock clapped, and Bobby dimpled and took a bow. Then he stuck his tongue out at his older sister. “Told you I could tell a proper fairy tale,” he said, as Sherlock schooled his face to be as bland as possible, while Molly did her level best not to burst out laughing.

Eliza stuck her nose in the air, and both parents were struck by how much she resembled her father in that moment, for better or worse. “I could tell a much better story,” she sniffed.

“Yeah? Do it,” he dared his sister.

She narrowed her eyes at him, and he stiffened, then seemed to remember that he had both parents between them so she couldn’t attack him straight off. She seemed to remember that, too, and cooled down a bit. “Fine,” she said, but it was clear she was racking her brains, “I’ll do it.”

After a few moments, but before her brother could jeer, Eliza cleared her throat. “Er-erm, all right. May I present the story of Eliza, the Wandering Princess.”

“Boring!” Bobby called out, in pitch-perfect imitation of his father.

Sherlock snorted, and Molly elbowed him as she scolded her son, “Bobby.”

“Sorry, Mum,” he said, then sighed when he realized who he was supposed to actually apologize to. “Sorry, Eliza.”

Eliza nodded curtly, but there were two pink spots on her cheeks, because she was only six and still easily embarrassed and irritated. “Anyways. Once upon a time, there was a girl called Princess Eliza. She was smart and beautiful and had everything she wanted, but what she didn’t know was what she wanted to be when she grew up. So she read a lot of books, and talked to her mum and dad, and she talked to her teachers, but she still didn’t know. A lot of her classmates already knew what they wanted to be, like teachers, or astronauts, or ballet dancers, but she couldn’t make up her mind. There were a lot of things that sounded good, but there were also a lot of things that sounded boring.

“So she asked her parents if she could go on a, a quest,” and she smiled triumphantly at the word, “a quest where she could find out what she could be when she grew up. The king and queen agreed, but they insisted on escorting her. After all, a princess can’t be too careful.” Eliza didn’t notice the smirk her father threw at her mother, since she was still processing the story in her mind. “So they went from town to town, looking at all the different jobs, and there were so many! The king and queen, unfortunately, couldn’t stay with her forever, since they had their own jobs of chasing down criminals and cutting up dead people,” Molly couldn’t help the small smile on her face, “so her brave brother Prince Robert guarded her for the rest of the journey,” and now Bobby is the one smiling.

“One day, they met a wise old woman. People called her a witch, because she made cookies so delicious they swore it was magic.” Molly and Sherlock shared a look. “But the wise old woman saw how confused Princess Eliza was and brought her and her brother into her home. After they had a lovely tea time, the wise old woman told her, ‘Don’t worry what you’ll do when you grow up, Princess. Whatever you do, do it with all your heart, and you will never go wrong. Just make sure that you stay loving, kind and brilliant, wherever you are and whatever you do.’

“Princess Eliza thanked her, because she was raised to be polite, but she also hugged her, because the wise old woman loved her, and she loved the wise old woman. Prince Robert hugged her too, because he wanted to join in.” The corners of Molly’s mouth twitched, but she didn’t laugh. “And then they went home, and Princess Eliza did her best to do what the wise old woman said, which was to be loving, kind and brilliant, even to her brother. The end.”

Her father hugged her, to her surprise, and murmured, “When did you become so smart?”

“Nana Lily is the smart one, I just took her words,” Eliza blushed.

Then Bobby jumped on his sister’s bed and opened his arms out for a hug, so Sherlock hugged him, too. Molly giggled and joined them, wrapping her arms around her children so they were sandwiched between herself and her husband. The parents kept hugging even after the children groaned about being squished, and only when the parents started kissing did the children escape the embrace.

“Am I gonna get a baby brother?” Bobby demanded when their parents continued to kiss.

“Or a baby sister?” Eliza chimed in.

Their parents froze, and Molly blushed while Sherlock chuckled. “Don’t you think two children are enough?” Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow past his wife’s red face.

“NO,” they chorused.

Now Molly raised an eyebrow of her own at her husband, who had a suspiciously wide grin. “Resist peer pressure, darling,” she said.

He pouted, “How can it be peer pressure when--”

She kissed him swiftly, and once he was sufficiently quieted, she turned to her children and smiled. “Let’s tuck you in, it’s a school day tomorrow.” Their children grumbled, but did as she said. Both parents kissed both children good night, and good nights were said.

Then Sherlock, in the privacy of their own bed, murmured, “Are you sure we can’t have another?”

Molly, who was spooned up against him, sighed, “It’s a school night.”

In the dark, Sherlock smiled. Then he lifted his head so he could kiss her cheek. “Good night, Molly.”

Molly was well on her way to dream land, but somewhere she was thinking of calling her mother for a babysitting visit. “G’night, Sherlock,” she mumbled.


	10. Chapter 10

2010: Forensic Pathologist

Two years later, Molly Hooper began working at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital as a lab technician, and two years after that, up to a forensic pathologist. It’s a teaching hospital, so it was a bit like still being back at uni, but fortunately, she doesn’t have to take any more classes, and even if she did, they’d pay her for it, rather than the other way round. It felt like, for once in her life, she’s got everything she wanted in a job, and then some. She’s doing what she loves, getting paid for it, and getting respect from it, to boot. If it weren’t respectful to the dead, she’d sing and dance about as if she were in a Disney movie, to be honest, that’s how happy with her work she was.

And she’s made some new friends at work. There’s Meena, who’s sassy but friendly, and Caroline, who’s talkative, but mostly about her home upkeep. And Mr. Northern, the old custodian, who took the adage “An apple a day keeps the doctor away” to such a level that he pretended to shoo away the doctors with his never-ending supply of apples from his pockets. _Professor McDonald was right,_ she thought, _doing what you love is a good start._

And only three months into her new position, she came across Sherlock Holmes. He’s a whirlwind of words, attitude, and energy, and she only half-wondered if it’s the thick coat that’s keeping him tethered to this world rather than flying to pieces. He’s not conventionally handsome, but his fierce intelligence, incisive observations, and crazy experiments seemed to gel into some insane form of good-looking. He obviously came from some wealthy family, because his suits were so well-tailored they’re criminally close to his skin, and he seemed to take for granted that people will just do what he said, in the manner of the privileged.

And her brain stopped, her courage melted away, and she’s suddenly back to being a mousy little girl when he’s in the room. She tried to be her usual, competent self, honestly she did, but there’s something about him that negated any confidence she’s built up, and she meekly agreed to whatever mad request he came up with. She never questioned him about his “consulting” detective title, but she couldn’t question he’s got the intelligence and nerve to back it up. And she never quite knew what she’ll say until it came out of her mouth, and every time he leaves, she felt stupid and embarrassed, like she really ought to know better.

But she didn’t care. For once, she had a crush on a man who embodies the shallow parts of her schoolgirl “list”, the one that all girls make up at one point in their lives. Sherlock Holmes is not just smart, but fits the “tall, dark and handsome” cliché. The fact that he’s arrogant beyond belief and rude to everyone equally apparently hadn’t made a dent in her infatuation. She knew there’s a part of her that thinks she can change him, which was rather silly, and another part that thinks he’ll grow out of his rudeness, which was even sillier. But she suspected a large part is that she’s absolutely hopeless when it comes to finding a handsome man with brains.

She has met nice men, yes, but often, they’re even sillier than she was. And when she’d been with smart men, they’ve been dismissive, as if she was beneath them somehow. Sure, she knows she’s no beauty, but then again, neither are they!

She sighed. It’s a pity that Sherlock Holmes was a beauty, in a wild, untamed-horse sort of way. And she knew there was no way a mousy girl like her could ever hope to catch his attention, especially after she’d practically put her pride in her mouth and asked him out on a date, and he both turned her down and expected her to get him coffee!

The sad thing was, Molly did get him the coffee. And this was after she offered the late Mr. Northern’s body as something for Sherlock to experiment on.

When she saw he befriended John Watson, an unassuming doctor, her hopes rose again. Perhaps she had a chance, his heart turning human a bit? But no, he continued to be oblivious as ever, so when someone from IT started flirting with her, she thought it was a good chance to both soothe her feminine pride and throw it back in Sherlock’s face.

Well, that was a mistake. Jim from IT turned out to be the madman Sherlock was chasing, and she’d even had him over for a “Glee” marathon! And Toby didn’t hiss or spit at him! She supposed cats really didn’t have a special sense about certain people after all, and that fairly buried her belief in superstition, if nothing else did.

Another mistake was thinking she could do what normal people did and that was flirt at a Christmas party. Not only did she fail spectacularly at that, but he insulted her, and she wound up autopsying the body of a naked woman whom Sherlock identified without relying on the disfigured face. Of _course_ he’d have a girlfriend with the body of a goddess. Of _course_ he would.

And then, he threw her for another loop when he turned to her for help in faking his death. She didn’t mind, but she felt uncomfortable dealing with the others in Sherlock’s life, and so she stayed away. They’d assumed she was grieving, but they actually were, and she felt uncomfortable with both trying to sham it and not being able to tell the others not to worry, Sherlock was really alive but still fighting for them. No, it was really, really uncomfortable, and so she took the coward’s way out and stayed away from all of them.

And then she met Tom, and he was lovely, and decent, and respected her work, even if he wasn’t very bright. But he wasn’t Sherlock and she was fine with that. After all, Sherlock only knew how to hurt her, and Tom would never do that. He was sweet, and caring, and so was his family. And for a while, she was happy. She had a job she loved, and a man who loved her.

Then Sherlock came back, and while she still felt silly butterflies, she was engaged now. When she found out that John Watson had a steady girlfriend now, she was happy for him, that he was able to find a girl who wouldn’t be chased off by Sherlock Holmes. And when she met Mary and realized she’d become John’s fiancée, well, people were certainly moving on. It was nice that everyone was getting settled down, and while she wasn’t surprised to be invited to John and Mary’s wedding, she was a bit surprised to hear that Sherlock would be the best man and performing the duties as such. She expected a disaster on his end (and it very nearly was, at the end), but she wasn’t expecting the disaster to come from Tom’s side, too.

Oh, Tom was sweet, and decent, and even eager, but he really didn’t have the intelligence Molly liked. And while Sherlock might have guessed her taste in men to be “psychopath”, she belatedly discovered during the wedding reception it was actually “genius”. Pity there were so few of them in the world, and even more of a pity that those she’d met were absolutely rude. She broke it off with Tom, who was disappointed, but resigned. While he may not have intelligence in the academic or crime-detecting sense, he was smart enough to realize that she wasn’t happy with their relationship and after a point, neither was he.

After all, it was no good for either of them to be settling when she knew it was possible to be happy. After all, there was her mum and dad, her brother Brian and his wife Sandra, as well as Anna and her husband Jeremy, and now John and Mary…

***

“How will I know when I find my Prince Charming?” Eliza asked one night.

Sherlock looked stricken at the thought of his darling little girl deserting her loving parents, and Molly swiftly answered, “It’s not easy, dear. After all, even in fairy tales, the heroine doesn’t have a happy ending until after many trials. But know this,” she leaned in, “while any man can pretend to be charming for a while, you should know that he should have a good heart as well as a clever mind. And you should, too.”

Then their little girl blinked. ‘But I already am,” she declared. Molly forced herself not to roll her eyes at either her husband, who looked entirely too smug for his own good, or her daughter. And it was a good thing that Bobby was already asleep, or he’d be making faces at the thought of his sister being a fairy tale heroine.

“Let me tell you a story about a happily ever after,” Sherlock said. “Pull up your blanket.” Eliza did so. “Once upon a time, there was a girl called Clever Molly. Clever Molly was a bright girl, as you’d know by her name,” and he quirked an eyebrow at his wife, who smirked back, “but not everyone believed that. So people constantly tested her and found that they could not best Clever Molly, try as they might. Her legend grew and grew.

“Then one day, there was a silly boy called Rude William.” Molly giggled, and her husband shot a look at her, but it wasn’t unkind. “Rude William was the worst one of all, because he thought he was cleverer than her, more clever than anyone. Well, he was mostly right,” and pouted when his wife not-so-gently elbowed him. “Anyways, Rude William would demand all sorts of things from Clever Molly, expecting her to fail like everyone else did. But she didn’t. In fact,” and his expression grew fond with memory, “she surprised him every time. She comforted him when he was sad and angry at the world, and not even his parents could do that. She showed him that it was possible to be clever and be kind and have fun. She showed him what loyalty was, even for someone she barely knew. She saved his life over, and over, and over. The problem was, he didn’t remember everything she did for him, and took her for granted.”

“That was rude,” Eliza broke in.

He nodded. “Well, I did tell you his name was Rude William,” he said. At her satisfied look, he had the sense to look chagrined, and continued on quickly.

“Finally, Rude William got a chance to save Clever Molly’s life. But by that time, he wasn’t taking her, or anyone else for granted. You see, Clever Molly had, in the last go round, had a secret key that opened the secret door to Rude William’s memories, so he would remember everything she had done for him. And that’s when he realized that not only was she in love with him, but he had been in love with her all that time.”

“And that’s when they lived happily ever after?” their daughter asked, seemingly cutting to the chase.

Molly smiled as her husband, looking more embarrassed, shook his head. “The silly fool thought so. But you see, Rude William had hurt Clever Molly so many times, she thought he was making fun of her again. So Rude William tried to prove himself with grand gestures and dramatic flourishes. But Clever Molly knew he had fooled others like that before, and didn’t believe him. So Rude William humbled himself and asked the wise people, those who knew and loved Clever Molly, what he should do to win her love and her trust.”

“And what did they say?” their girl was leaning forward eagerly.

Sherlock, as he had from the beginning of the story, chose his words carefully. He knew it was highly probable that his six-year-old daughter would forget details of a story years and years later, but it was just as probable, if not highly likely, that it would become an oft-told story and one more factualized as the years went on, about how he finally won Molly’s trust as well as her heart. And he did not want his little girl to break her heart over and over for a callous fool like himself, or he’d allow Molly to dissect him live on her autopsy table before cutting his fool head off. “The wise people asked him, ‘Why are you pursuing her now? Is it because you’ve finally realized her worth?’

“ ‘No, it’s because I’ve realized my unworthiness,’ he answered.

“ ‘You’ve already broken her heart so many times, why shouldn’t we let you break yours, too?’

Molly whipped her head around so fast, it almost hurt. She hadn’t heard this. In fact, she hadn’t realized how far Sherlock had been willing to go. She stared at him, but it was apparent he was forcing himself to return their daughter’s steady gaze on him.

“ ‘My heart, what little there is of it, is already broken,’ he answered. ‘I only ask that you give me a chance to heal Clever Molly’s.’

“ ‘Pretty words from a pretty mouth,’ the wise people murmured. ‘And what if Clever Molly still says no, what then?’

“Rude William replied, ‘I would be sad, but I want her to be happy. She should always be happy. Clever Molly is the brightest, sweetest, and best woman I know. If not with me, then with someone who will make her as happy as she deserves.’

“ ‘Then let her know that,’ the wise people told him. ‘Don’t pressure her, don’t try to awe her, just love her.’

“ ‘How do I do that?’ Rude William asked. ‘I’ve been rude all my life.’

“ ‘Learn not to be,’ they said. ‘If you think it would make Clever Molly sad, don’t say it or do it. And if you think something would make her happy, then say it and do it.’

“Rude William frowned. ‘What would make her happy? I’ve tried everything.’

“ ‘No, you haven’t, but you have now,’ the wise people answered in their frustrating way. ‘Now you’ve asked for our help, and we will help you.’ ”

“That explains so much,” Molly murmured, but fortunately Eliza hadn’t heard.

“So then what happened? Did Clever Molly find out that Rude William really loved her? Did he win her heart?” she asked.

Sherlock nodded after a beat, seemingly lost in his mind for a bit. “Yes, but it took a long time. She had to learn he had truly changed and that she was really and truly important to him.” And now he finally turned to his wife, who not only looked at him with love, but with trust and pride. “And the wise people vouched for his change, which helped, but eventually, it had to be Clever Molly’s decision to accept someone as foolish as he. And finally, finally, all his dreams came true, and she said yes. And that’s when he finally became a prince, because he became the good man Clever Molly deserved.”

Eliza was confused. Her daddy looked sad, when he said it would be a happily-ever-after story. “Daddy, what’s wrong? Did something bad happen to Clever Molly and Rude William?”

He shook his head. “Eliza, please promise me something.”

“Okay, Daddy.”

“Promise me that you won’t fall in love with a rude idiot like Rude William, no matter how attractive or charming he seems. Because good women really don’t deserve to have their hearts broken, and you, my darling daughter, deserve to have a man who will respect her and cherish her and love her from the start. Promise me?”

“Of course!” she said, throwing her arms around his neck and hugging him. “Good night, Daddy.”

He smiled sweetly at her, then kissed her on the cheek. “Good night, sweetheart.” He tucked her in, and Molly bent over to kiss Eliza’s cheek, too. “Good night, darling.”

When Molly and Sherlock were in their own bedroom, Molly hugged him tightly. “You were always a good man,” she said, “you just didn’t realize it.”

“And you were always a princess,” he hugged her back, “but it took me too long to realize it.”

She smiled and tilted her head up. He leaned down and kissed her. “And promise me you’ll tell Bobby that story, too.”

“Of course, Clever Molly,” he said.

“ ‘Rude William’? Really?” she grinned.

“We can’t both be clever in a fairy tale,” he said reasonably, “and I was rather foolish.”

“Thank you for talking to the wise people,” she smiled, “I know it must’ve been hard.”

“But we’re together now, with two intelligent and beautiful children,” Sherlock said, “it was worth it. You are always worth it.”

“Still trying to woo me, Sherlock Holmes?” her mouth twitched upwards.

“Always, Molly Hooper,” he said, then picked her up and carried her to bed, making her whoop. “Shhh, children are sleeping.”

“If you plan on doing what I think you are, they’d better stay that way,” Molly grinned as he carefully laid her down on the bed, then landed with a bounce next to her.

And they spent the rest of that night enjoying their happily-ever-after. 

THE END


End file.
